


All In Your Mind

by stele3



Series: The Gay Mormons [1]
Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 07:05:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stele3/pseuds/stele3





	All In Your Mind

_It's all in your mind, it's all in your mind._   
_And I wanted to be, I wanted to be,_   
_Your good friend_   
_\- Beck_

 

_then_

Ryan's first memory that included Spencer was a foggy-glass recollection of a strange house. It wasn't a good memory: he'd been so anxious, he could barely eat the bowl of Cheerios some grownup had put in his hands. He'd still shoveled the soggy Os into his mouth, earning his place on the floor with every pained, obedient swallow. Quiet phone calls had buzzed in the kitchen and someone had been sitting behind him on the couch, banging their feet against the cushions. 

Ryan's always had strong sense-memory connections; forever afterwards, the taste of Cheerios sparked the faint dusty smell of a carpet underneath his crossed legs and the itch of a stare between his shoulder blades. Then, the sweet-sour taste of stomach acid when he'd finally puked the cereal back into the bowl. Big feet had thumped across the carpet toward him and Ryan had choked with nameless terror.

He remembered it years later in the throes of pre-adolescent self-obsession, when he surveyed every piece of himself to notate structural flaws. The strangeness of the memory troubled him; he wondered if he had some other suppressed traumas buried in his subconscious mind that would stunt his emotional growth. 

Eventually, of course, he shared this concern with Spencer, describing the sick clump of Cheerios and the lurker at his back.

Spencer looked at him with one eyebrow scrunched down all the way and the other arched high on his forehead. At age 10 Spencer had already perfected a look of absolute disdain. It shouldn't come as a surprise, though: Ryan had seen baby pictures of a tiny, wrinkled creature frowning up from his crib. _What is this shit? A plane mobile? Screw that, I want cars. And don't even think about getting me the_ discount _diapers._  
  
"That was _me_ on the couch, butthead," Spencer told him.

Ryan stared as Spencer threw another rock against the wall. They sat in their customary spot in the breezeway just outside the lunchroom doors. It was a nice spot to watch all the kids flood out onto the playground; their favorite game was to make quiet, mean comments about each kid as they passed and see who could come up with the best insults. Not to be really _mean_ , just for practice or something. 

Plus, if they went out on the playground, Max would make fun of them both for "running like girls," whatever the heck that meant. Ryan had seen some girls run, and Madielena could totally beat Max in the races the fourth graders sometimes held along the playground fence. 

"How do you know that?" Ryan asked.

"You were 6," Spencer said snippily, the way he always did when he didn't want to talk about something. "Your dad left you at school all night. Mom and I found you asleep on the front steps."

"How come you remember that and I don't?" Spencer would have been 5; it might, Ryan realized, have been how they met.

"Because I'm smarter, duh." Spencer rolled his eyes; Ryan felt suddenly, sharply grateful for the edge of meanness in Spencer's voice. Somehow it made him feel better. Maybe that was backwards but Ryan had better things to worry about…like what to do with his hair and face and stick limbs, or Max Cameron, or how to get out of having to spend time at his father's house. 

Still, Ryan persisted; once he got an idea it tended to circle around in his brain until he couldn't sleep from the noise. "What else do you remember?" he asked Spencer. That earned him another look and he explained, "I saw this thing on TV about repressed memories."

Spencer frowned. "Like _The X-Files_? When the aliens abducted Scully?"

"No," Ryan sighed, pained. "Geek." His best friend was one grade behind him, and a geek. Ryan's life was so unfair.

"You're the geek."

" _You're_ the geek."

"If it isn't aliens," Spencer went on, ignoring their brief interlude, "then how did they get repressed?"

"Well, like, if there's some kind of trauma then your real brain gets scared or something and puts it in the subconscious brain. That's your pretend brain – it's where dreams come from."

Spencer screwed up his nose, clearly doubtful about this 'pretend brain' business. "You think your brain has gotten scared?"

Ryan paused. It felt like he spent most of his time being scared, but he couldn't _say_ that. He didn't worry that Spencer would make fun of him – weirdly, he kind of worried that he _wouldn't_. Spencer made fun of everyone and everything that wasn't smaller than he was; Ryan still remembered (with a smile) when he'd made Carrie Nelson cry in third grade (she'd totally had it coming, the other kids had even cheered). It'd feel weird if he made an exception for Ryan. 

"Just," he stumbled then gathered himself. "That's not how it works. If you've got repressed memories then you don't know you've got them. They're just in there and they can make you stunted."

Spencer cocked his head to one side. "So, anybody could have them and not know it?"

"Right! That's kind of freaky, right? They say that's why people become serial killers and stuff, because their subconscious brain has all this stuff in it. Or, like…" he tried to remember the specifics of the TV program. "Vietnam vets, they go on killing rampages all the time because they have flashbacks." 

"Like in _Rambo_?"

"Yeah, like that. It's got to be something really bad, to scare your brain enough."

After another moment of careful consideration, Spencer shook his head. "Maybe other people have repressed memories, but you don't."

He sounded awfully certain. "How do you know?" Ryan asked suspiciously. 

Spencer spread his hands. "I've known you since you were 6. And nothing _really_ bad has happened to you that _I_ remember."

"Maybe it happened when you weren't around."

Spencer rolled his eyes. "When am I not around?"

It took a moment for Ryan to come up with an answer. "In class." Which sucked; Ryan kept trying to get held back a grade so they could have the same teachers, but then the school would call his parents and that never ended well. He'd get yelled at doubly-over and he didn't know which he hated worse: his mother's disappointment or his father's anger.

"I would have heard about it. Brent would have told me." Brent actually _had_ been held back a year and was in Spencer's class, but still talked to his friends in Ryan's grade. Spencer and Ryan used him to pass notes and messages sometimes if one of them had detention. Brent didn't talk much, so he made a good secret-keeper.

Ryan thought hard. "At night, when I'm not staying over." Granted, that wasn't very often anymore. Last summer he'd practically lived at Spencer's house, wearing the same pair of clothes (his swim trunks underneath) and sleeping with the smell of dried chlorine in his nose.

"Mom would have found out," Spencer replied. Which was also true. Ryan's mother rarely went out or made friends, but she made an exception for regular phone calls to Spencer's mom. Mostly because Spencer's mom was so adamant on the subject; Spencer got his hint of meanness from somewhere, even if Mrs. Smith kept it tucked away most of the time. She watched Ryan's visitations with his father like a hawk, always questioning him afterwards. Nothing much had happened so far, and if anything did she probably had Social Services on speed dial.

"I guess," Ryan said slowly. He'd kind of wanted to have repressed memories. If he turned out stunted, at least he'd have a good reason for it.

"And nothing's happened to me, right?" Spencer glanced at him sideways.

Ryan perked. That was kind of cool: logically, he knew as much about Spencer as Spencer knew about him. But he couldn't remember any time that Spencer had been shot at or held captive in a cellar; he slumped. "No, I don't think so."

Spencer shrugged and picked up another rock. "Ooo, look, there's Mike Griswold."

Ryan followed his gaze in time to see Mike pick his underwear out of his butt. "Ew, gross. I think he flosses his butt more than his teeth."

Spencer laughed and threw the rock against the wall. Point to Ryan.

 

*****

_March 2006_

Brendon Urie is trouble, plain and simple. Ryan remembers liking him the instant they met, mostly because Brendon gave him no choice: he seems to adore everyone that isn't actively being a dick to him, and that’s a startling thing to experience. Ryan associates love with hard work that usually isn't worth it, while Brendon passes it out like free tokens at a carnival, no less precious for its availability. 

Still, sometimes Ryan wants to just _shake_ Brendon until all the big clues fall into place. 

Right now, for example, Brendon is taking offense that Ryan isn't doing a better job of drunk-sitting him. Back when Panic had first formed, those desperate dirty-fingernail days, Brendon had been too busy with two jobs and high school to contemplate the sordid trappings of his new profession. Now, though, with a record deal and an album and a _tour bus_ , every party in the general vicinity winds up with BRENDON URIE WUZ HERE written all over it in a swath of empty red cups. 

"Seriously! Seeeeeriously. I would take care of you, Ryan Ross! I would care for you like you were my own, if you were in your position right now." Brendon pauses, and frowns. His current position is actually doubled over, hands propped on unsteady legs. "If I were in _your_ position right now. If you were in mine."

Ryan leans against a car – BMW, nice – and folds his arms. "Oh yeah?"

"Yes! I would wrap you up in a blanket and feed you soup – wait, no, you'd puke it up. I'd… I'd rub your feet and hold your hand and hoooooooooahhhh."

The last bit trails off in a new wave of orange, stringy vomit. Looks like a whole pitcher of Sex On the Beach, Ryan notes. Trust Brendon to find the gayest mixed drink he could find; he probably went with it because of the little umbrellas. Brendon _loves_ miniature things.

"I wouldn't," Brendon goes on as if the vomiting hadn't happened, "stand there and _mock_ your _agony_." He wipes his mouth and spits.

" _I_ wouldn't be fucking stupid enough to get this drunk in the first place," Ryan points out, tipping his head back to stare up at the sky. The humming street lights blot out most of the stars, but he can see a few bright ones. "Especially if I was the lead singer of a band that has to play in front of thousands of people tomorrow. Do you have any idea what stomach acid can do to your vocal chords?"

"Oh, God," Brendon groans and waggles his fingers in the air ridiculously. "I'm _so_ sorry that I'm not living up to your strict codes of…"

"Conduct."

"Conduct! You're a Nazi, Ryan Ross!"

"And your stomach is Anne Frank," Ryan supplies, suddenly exhausted and just fucking _done_ with this conversation. He pushes away from the car. "In case you haven't noticed, we're the supporting band here. Don't think that we aren't eminently replaceable."

Brendon grimaces. "I know that."

"Oh, do you? Well, that makes everything better. At least you _know_ that you might be fucking up our chances."

"Fuckhead."

"Drunk prick." Ryan turns on his heel and walks across the parking lot toward their bus.

When he gets on, Spencer looks up from his seat at the table. He has a magazine spread out in front of him – their latest interview. Ryan isn't the only one prone to navel-gazing. "Where's Brendon?" Spencer asks.

"Communing with his own intestines," Ryan informs him darkly. "Is that the last of the cereal?"

Spencer hands over the bowl without comment then squeezes past Ryan to put his sandals on. Ryan stares after him as he hops down the stairs, then swallows the last soggy gulp of cereal, drops the bowl in the sink, and heads back through the bus. 

Brent is already back there, his legs dangling out of his upper bunk. "Hey."

"Hey." Ryan pokes his legs and Brent lifts them to let him roll into his own bunk. 

"Brendon okay?" Brent asks.

"Don't know," Ryan says shortly. "Don't care." He pulls his curtain shut, cutting off the light.

Brent has nothing to say to that. Some things don't change; they just get older.

Distantly, the front door opens and, behold, Brendon's voice cuts in immediately. " – fascism on a _bus_. Oo, that should be our new bandname! Fascism On A Bus."

Above Ryan, Brent rolls into his bunk and closes the curtain. Everyone else has already passed out from the party; no one emerges to help Spencer shepherd Brendon's drunk underage ass.

"If you do a Sam Jackson impression," Spencer's voice says mildly, "I'm going to drop you on your face."

"I want these motherfucking fascists off this motherfucking _bus_ ," Brendon bellows. There's a slight pause, and then he exclaims, "You _didn't_ drop me! Spencer Smith the fifth! You're my _favorite_!"

"Oh God," Spencer groans. "Please let go of me. Seriously, Brendon, I will push you under the bus."

"You won't do that, either," Brendon says. Their feet stumble down between the bunks and movement flickers in the cracks of Ryan's curtains. "You're a wonderful, wonderful boy, Spencer Smith the fifth. Unlike _some_ people I could name," he adds in a louder tone.

"All right," Spencer says quietly. "Come on, get in."

"This is _your_ bunk." Brendon gasps. "Oh my God. Are you going to take advantage of me?"

Ryan bites his lip. Okay, it's a little funny. Mostly because he can imagine the precise look on Spencer's face at this moment.

"That's _exactly_ what I'm doing," Spencer says dryly. "I might even tie you up. And right in your mouth, I'll put a big, big… _sock_."

Brendon giggles high and a little nervous. " _Spen_ cer. You kinky boy."

There's a loud, wet noise – Ryan frowns in surprise at the back of his curtains – and then Spencer splutters, "You did _not_ just – _you've been throwing up_ , Brendon!"

"Oh. Yeah."

Spencer makes a noise of utter disgust. "Go to sleep. I have to rinse my mouth out with _acid_."

Brendon laughs, trailing off at the end. Spencer's feet thump across the floor. There's a beat of silence, broken eventually by the bus' engine starting up and the first lurch of motion and then Brendon's snuffling snore. 

Ryan pinches his curtain rings, easing them silently across the metal rod. By the time he comes out to the lounge, Spencer has a ring of toothpaste around his mouth. "Did he really kiss you?"

Spencer pauses in mid-scrub and glares up at Ryan.

It takes effort to keep a grin off his face, even though they both know that he's _thinking_ about grinning. At some point they had come to the unspoken agreement that if something wasn't explicitly stated it couldn't be held against them: psychic insults don't count. They both know that inside, Ryan is laughing his ass off.

He eases down onto the edge of the couch and puts his feet up on the coffee table beside Spencer's. "I wasn't sure whose honor to defend, there."

Spencer breathes out sharply through his nose and goes back to brushing. They sit for a moment in peaceable silence, rocked by the bus' steady motion across the highway. A travel song might be nice, on the next album, Ryan thinks. Something bluesy, with a rolling guitar rhythm. _The wheels on the bus go 'round and 'round, 'round and 'round…_

When Spencer's big toe nudges into the instep of Ryan's foot, he looks over; Spencer is still brushing away, his left eyebrow lifted just so.

Ryan glances at the bunks. "I shouldn't have to be around that, Spence. I don't _have_ to baby-sit him."

Spencer shakes his head a little, but then cocks it to one side. His hand works in a blur. He opens his jaw a little to reach his molars.

"He knows about my dad already," Ryan argues.

A cup sits on the far side of the coffee table; Spencer waggles his pinkie at it and Ryan stretches forward, feeling the pull in his sore calf muscles – who knew standing onstage could hurt so bad? – to snag the cup. He hands it to Spencer, who spits and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"He knows about your dad," Spencer says. A white smear of toothpaste encloses both corners of his mouth like parentheses. "He doesn't know about _you_ and your dad."

It's hard for Ryan to remember sometimes that not all of his friends are Spencer. Usually, it's Spencer that has to remind him of that fact.

The next morning, when Spencer takes Brent out to forage for cereal bars and Pop-tarts, Ryan finds Brendon hunched in the kitchen. He sets his palm flat on the table beside Brendon's elbow, not quite touching him, and begins quietly, "It's not you, Bren. It's me."

Brendon eyes Ryan cautiously with a bloodshot gaze. It's familiar enough to be distracting; Ryan scratches at the table for a moment, sorting through the words he'd put together in his head last night. "I know there are people that can drink and not have a problem," he says at last. "I just – alcoholism is genetic."

Brendon’s face changes by degrees as he figures out every different part of that sentence. "You're worried about you?"

"I don't want to take the chance – better to not have it around me at all. I'm not the most stable person ever, in case you haven't noticed," he adds.

Brendon – who isn’t, either – nods then tentatively curls his fingers around Ryan’s wrist on the table. “I’m sorry.”

The clear-eyed sympathy in his face makes Ryan blanch inwardly, but he tries not to let Brendon see. “You didn’t know. I’m sorry I was such a, uh, Nazi.”

That makes Brendon smile, his shoulders rolling as if to physically shake off the whole episode. “You were a mean Nazi. I felt like a helpless, innocent nun in your clutches.”

“Oh, no,” Ryan moans. He knows what’s coming. Brendon’s hand tightens around his wrist, preventing escape, and his back slowly arches as he sucks in a huge breath.

“ _The_ _hiiiiiiiiiills are aliiiiiiii_ – owie.” Brendon puts a hand to his head, cringing.

“You’re a dumbass,” Ryan says.

Brendon peeks around his fingers then points one at Ryan. “Got one. I rock.” He licks that same finger and marks the air before tucking his palm back over his eyes.

Ryan wipes the involuntary smile off his face, but still gets up to find Brendon a glass of water; contrary to his behavior last night, he is an _excellent_ drunk-sitter. Brendon sighs with relief and slurps at the water. “You’re like Rolfe, Ryan Ross. You act all Nazi, but deep inside, you’re a warm, wonderful person.” He butts his head against Ryan’s ribcage, sighing again.

His hair, still stiff from yesterday’s gel, pokes Ryan’s chest; he gingerly pats it, pulling a face at the sticky feeling. “I think you have me confused, Brendon Urie. I am cold and dead inside. And Spencer’s the one who called me on the dick-ness, so. Thank him.”

“Oh,” Brendon murmurs, rubbing his forehead. “That’s sweet of him.”

Later when they stand and deliver onstage, Brendon’s voice does sound a little scratchy. It actually works in his favor, though, lending a certain sexy roughness; Ryan wonders how to replicate it without having Brendon actually vomit the day before every performance. Brendon also comes over to curl himself around Ryan, singing into his microphone and slipping his hand through Ryan’s hair. He grins at Ryan with his back to the audience. Ryan matches him tooth for tooth. 

The real trouble with Brendon Urie is that he _gets_ it. Not intellectually, but instinctively. He and Ryan have been swirling around each other in a dance of mutual fascination since they met: it’s not so much attraction (at least, not on Ryan’s part – he does wonder about Brendon sometimes) as an instinctive recognition of trauma. They’re both damaged, and they know one of their own.

They also both know where to find help – or at least, Brendon knows after that. 

 

-o-

_May 2006_

The Brent situation takes Ryan by surprise. Brent had missed a few sound checks, but it isn't until they're fucking flying Jon in from Chicago to go onstage that Ryan thinks, _Oh_.

Maybe he should be angry at Spencer for falling so thoroughly on this little grenade; but he doesn't know how to express his anger without first admitting that _hey, I didn't even notice that 1/4th of our fucking band was dropping off the bus_. So he keeps his mouth shut while Spencer gets Brent on the phone.

Brendon doesn't say anything, either. The moment Spencer hits _End_ on the speakerphone, he gets up and walks away from the table to the bunks. Their precious few techs have cleared out and the bus' narrow interior feels appropriately hushed, like a funeral home with their bunks as caskets

Spencer sits back in his chair. Ryan can tell he has a knot in both shoulders. "You're dealing with Pete," Spencer tells him, because of the many, many things that he can do, following Pete Wentz through his Gordian knot of conversational tangents is not one of them. Only once has Spencer attempted to have more than a five-minute conversation with Pete, after which he unofficially placed Ryan on Wentz Duty from now unto the Omega of the world.

The laugh that bounces out from between Ryan's teeth sounds slightly hysterical; he clears his throat. "Jon?"

Spencer sighs, doubling his arms back to dig curved fingers into his shoulders. "For now, but Bill might, like, send assassins."

Persuasion and charm don't come naturally to Ryan and he never bothers to try unless it's on behalf of something he gives a shit about; but then he's kind of amazing. He'd convinced Pete Wentz to fly to Vegas through the power of blog comments alone. "I'll try," he says.

Spencer stands up; Ryan feels his eyebrows lift. "Hey?"

Spencer purses his mouth. "Brendon."

"Oh. Yeah." He and Spencer had known Brent longer, but Brent had been the one that introduced them to Brendon. _Hey, I didn't even notice that 1/4th of our fucking band is going to be pretty upset_. Ryan bites his lip; there are very few things in the world more painful than a depressed Brendon Urie – it’s like watching puppies being put through a meat grinder. “I’ll come with?” he offers reluctantly.

Spencer rolls his eyes. "Wentz," he calls over his shoulder as he goes.

"Wentz," Ryan agrees, relieved, and pulls out his cell. He’ll talk to Brendon later, after Spence has gotten him calmed down a bit.

Pete picks up on the second ring. Ryan knows for a fact that he'd had his hand on the phone at the first, but took until the second to answer; Pete always needs an extra moment to prepare himself for things and consequently trails a step behind everyone else. 

"How'd it go?" he asks when he does answer.

"Hm," Ryan says, trying to quickly arrange his thoughts. Maybe he should start taking a first ring, too. "About what you'd expect. He was pretty angry, but…I think we got the point across. He's not, like, threatening to come back and set fire to the bus. We said we'd arrange a time for Zack to take him through and get all of his stuff."

"Okay." Pete clucks his tongue for a moment then says, "I hear the east coast is nice in the summer."

At this point, Spencer would have pulled the phone away from his ear to stare at it while doing that thing with his eyebrows.

Ryan merely waits then says, "I thought it was the fall," when Pete doesn't elaborate.

"Tell Jon that it's summer," Pete says. "You guys have to go to Maryland in a week."

"You think we should make him permanent?"

"I think you guys have to go to Maryland in a week." Pete rustles around for a little bit and says distantly, "Good boy. That's a good boy," in the singsong voice reserved for his dog. At least, Ryan prays he's talking to his dog. He taps his fingers on the kitchenette table in front of him, knowing better than to interrupt any pet-related activities.

"Whether you make him permanent or not is up to you guys," Pete says when his attention returns. "But a week is not enough time to find a replacement. The Academy's starting work on their second album, Jon will be free anyway. Get to him now before he makes plans."

It's strange, Ryan muses as he hangs up. Pete behaves like a space cadet on Viagra about 75% of the time, but he's got a band, a label, a clothing line, and seems to come out in the black every time. _A space cadet on Viagra with fantastic business sense,_ Ryan thinks as he rises from the kitchenette and ambles back toward the bunks.

When he gets back there, he discovers that Brendon has Spencer backed up against one of the walls of bunks with one hand tucked on the back of Spencer's head to pull him down. Spencer doesn't seem to be complaining, though: he's kissing Brendon back, his hands resting lightly on Brendon's waist.

Ryan stares, then turns around and walks off the bus. He stands outside blinking at the pavement as if he can communicate to it in Morse code.

After a few minutes he starts off through the parking in search of Jon.

He doesn't have to go far. The Weenie Roast is about 100 pounds of party in a 10 pound bag: crowded and cramped, with people sticking elbows into each other's buses and bruising more egos than ribs. Fences hem them in on all sides (lined by hopeful fans, the diamond pattern of chain link imprinted on their faces) and Ryan briefly ponders whether they'd be able to escape if one of the buses caught on fire or something.

Centered in the hodgepodge of buses is an open concrete area, and some picnic tables. Jon sits on one of them with a couple of the other techs, a chunky long-haired guy from HIM – Ryan can't remember his name, they're all Miko and Piko or something – and Tom Conrad. 

Ryan can't quite figure out Tom: he's smart and gifted – in more than just music – but seems unconcerned about his place in a band that isn't technically _his_. During 'Truckstops,' Bill and the others had lived together while Tom kicked it with the techs. Ryan obviously isn't an expert on band relations, but it can't be normal to have 4 members of the band on one bus and a lone wolf on another.

Of course, the presence of a tech named Jon Walker might have had something to do with that.

Tom jerks his chin in greeting. Jon follows his gaze and waves a little without taking his hands out of his hoodie pockets.

"Hey." Ryan worms his way past a couple bodies to sit down on Jon's other side.

The guy from HIM is telling some broken story about naked streaking in New York, his hands animating when his English fails him. Sotto voce, Jon asks, "How'd it go?"

Ryan shrugs. "He called us cunts and threatened legal action. Spencer says he hasn't got anything, though, so." He shrugs a second time.

Jon slides a hand out of his pockets and across Ryan's shoulders. "You're not a cunt, Ryro. You're a beautiful, beautiful flower."

"I am inexpressibly relieved to hear that," Ryan tells him. "I think."

"So what're you guys gonna do?" Tom asks, leaning his elbows on his knees. Prompting a little, maybe. He's a smart one, Conrad, and he and Jon have been attached at the hip for longer than anyone can say for sure.

It probably isn't good band politics for Ryan to be doing this alone, but he doesn't want to have to go back and interrupt whatever Brendon and Spencer are doing right now. _Hey, I didn't even notice that half of my band members are fucking. Or something._

A smile would probably help and Ryan tries one on. "I hear the east coast is nice in the summer."

Tom gets it first and starts laughing

-o-

_then_

Ryan always went to Spencer for help with his dad, mainly because Spencer never asked about it… unlike their teachers, the school counselors, or Spencer's mom. Lifetime movies had led Ryan to expect that people would turn blind eyes away from the train wreck of his family; ignore the warning signs, get tied up in jurisdictions, and let him slip through the cracks. Instead, it seemed like everyone wanted to establish a support system to help him through this time of crisis or whatthefuckever. 

One high school counselor even offered foster care as an alternative. Ryan stared at her. "Are you crazy? I've heard about the foster care system. I'm not fucking doing it."

The counselor, Mrs. Prosser, frowned at the expletive but obviously felt sorry enough for him to let it slide; she passed a slip of paper, his report card, across the desk to him. "Ryan, you're already showing signs of developmental difficulties. Your grades in math and science are –"

Ryan put his spread fingertips on the report card and pushed it back with an exaggerated snap. "My grades in math and science suck because I fucking hate math and science and my teachers are scum-sucking dick brains. How 'bout that?"

He'd still been angry about it when he got home, and that led to problems, which in turn led to him calling Spencer to come by with his dad. Somehow Spencer's school or extracurricular schedule had never conflicted with Ryan's late night calls; Spencer's dad worked in the mornings, though, so Ryan tried not to ask for him to come by except when they really needed it. 

Ryan's father stood in the front doorway to see him off. Spencer, Jesus, actually got out of the idling Volvo and stood with his hands shoved in his pockets, his feet planted, tense and watchful. 

Seeing him stand there, thirteen years old and chubby and trying to look bigger than he was…well, it made Ryan kind of want to laugh in an awful way, because really, Spencer had _no_ idea. But it also made the walk across the lawn so much easier, especially when Spencer climbed into the back seat with him instead of getting back up front.

One night – it might have been the same day as his aborted visit to the counselor – he was washing his face in the upstairs bathroom when Spencer came in. "Can I use your Lexederm?" Ryan asked. He'd already put some on, actually.

Spencer grunted, fingers curling around the bottle to spurt out a few more smears for his own skin; he was going through a rough patch with his skin, his chin covered in red spots. "I was thinking about that band thing," he said to the mirror.

Once they'd said it out loud the idea had grabbed hold of Ryan and wouldn't let go. He was his father's son, after all: addictive tendencies soaked his genes and shone through in his chewed-up nails. At least Spencer had said yes. Ryan figured it couldn't be too fucked up, if Spencer was on board. Ryan's parents wouldn't be and he couldn't _wait_ for that conversation to happen.

It hadn't yet, though. Under cover of night they spent hours awake whispering to one another over the edge of Spencer's bed. About what they could do, what they could be. 

Lead singer and drummer, they decided, after auditioning their singing voices in the quiet dark of Spencer's bedroom. Spencer couldn't carry a tune and Ryan wasn't a whole lot better; but drum kits cost more money than guitars, so they agreed that Spencer would be the drummer.

(At some point in later years, Ryan moved from a mattress on the floor to claim a side of the bed. It wasn't a deliberate move – he'd still been too young for cunning; that came later when he lost the last edge of innocence and needed a new tool in his arsenal – just a gesture of familiarity and laziness.

It wasn't like they needed the distance any more.)

Mighty Ants turned into Pet Salamander turned into Summer League. Which all sounded like ridiculous fucking names for a band; none of them would go beyond high school, if that, and therein lay the safety. A few other members came and went, but most of the time it consisted of just Spencer and Ryan in Spencer's garage. His parents had started parking their cars outside when it became clear that the drum kit and guitar (Ryan left it at Spencer's house for safe-keeping) were here to stay.

The bands were really one long, sequential audition for each other. Spencer begged his parents to get cable so they could watch MTV, then gave it up when they realized the channel didn't play music anymore, just crappy "reality" shows about the tough lives of Malibu socialites. They settled for trying to recreate every song on the radio, playing them for their audience of one.

Once or twice, Spencer's mom tried to listen in; Spencer chased her away by yelping " _Mom_!" and refusing to play a beat until she went back inside. This was strictly a private affair.

Ryan couldn't resist a little teasing. It wasn't that he felt jealous; he just needed to make himself a part of the moment and didn't know any other way. "I'll bet Charlie Watts never had to chase his mom out of the garage."

Spencer rolled his eyes. "Charlie Watts also punched the hell out of his lead singer."

"Really? He decked Jagger?"

"Almost threw him out a window." Spencer tapped his hi-hat gently; it was meant as a test but sounded like the _ba-dum-chiii_ of a joke's auditory exclamation point.

Ryan strummed to himself while Spencer obsessively adjusted and retightened his kit. He didn't worry about either of them becoming prima donnas – it'd be hard to act like a big-time rock star when there was someone nearby who had seen him in his best space rocket underwear, and vice versa. Or if they did, they'd become prima donnas together and that wouldn't be too bad. If he ever got the chance Ryan knew that he wanted to order something ridiculous at least once, like mosquito eggs or a solid chocolate sculpture of his pinkie finger – not to be a dick, just to see if he could get it.

"Yoo-hoo," Spencer said, and Ryan drifted back into the small garage with its musty smell and jars of nails and screws. It suddenly felt tiny, constricting, and Ryan tasted dust in the back of his throat as he swallowed. Freaking desert, it coated everything.

Spencer looked at him a moment then leaned over and tucked his drumsticks carefully in the pouch slung from the back of his kick drum. "Come on, Ry. It's too hot in here to play."

Ryan clung to his guitar and fought off the vague feeling of panic that was building in his stomach; he didn't know which way to run, which avenue led to escape. "Not really. We could – maybe we should keep practicing?" The questioning lilt at the end slipped out of his mouth before he could catch it. He swallowed again.

"Madison Parcell is having a party." Spencer swung off his stool and shrugged. Sweat stained the pits and the front of his shirt, making the fabric transparent; a lingering bit of childhood pudge clung to his stomach. "I kinda wanted to go."

They left the garage behind and climbed the back stairs to Spencer's room quietly; the garage might be off-limits, but if his mom heard them in the house she would pounce to ask how the practice had gone. 

Ryan always kept three outfits of clothing in Spencer's bedroom: school clothes, party clothes, and practice clothes. There had been enough emergency calls in the middle of the night to warrant a few backup items; if he got desperate he could wear Spencer's clothes, but though they stood around the same height they were completely different body types. 

He found himself comparing them in the mirror while Spencer shuffled through the closet behind him, shirtless, frowning deeper and deeper at every new option. Where Ryan had long, bony limbs to rival Stretch Armstrong, Spencer was kind of weirdly round – not overweight, exactly, just soft in all the places where Ryan would be poky. He had a tendency to slump, and to cock his hip out if he stood still for very long; he was doing right now, in fact.

"You stand like a girl," Ryan commented.

Spencer looked over, his frown frozen on his mouth. "What?"

Ryan turned to lean against the dresser. "That's not, like, an insult."

"It'd better not be. You're wearing eyeliner."

"You just – don't stand like a guy. It's not a bad thing, I'm just saying."

Spencer examined his own body, then cocked his hip further and looked up with a sharp, bright grin.

(Later, years later, Ryan will think, _There. Then._

He might be wrong – there are certainly other possibilities – but that's the exact flash in time that he remembers best.)

Madison only lived a couple streets away, so they walked. Real estate brochures called these suburbs 'homey' and Ryan called them 'puny.' Most of the time he felt ambivalent about Summerlin: he had no use for it, and the feeling was mutual; it was only every now and then that he got this way, like he wanted to steal a car or hitch a ride and just _go, go, go_.

It was a feeling that he associated far too much with the court-mandated weekends at his dad's house. Nothing much had ever happened but he'd been scared every time, braced for something terrible even when all they usually did was sit around and watch TV. Sometimes his dad asked questions and Ryan answered in monosyllables, avoiding eye contact, showing as little emotion as possible, like it was a wild tiger in the room with him instead of a middle-aged man. Often he'd slip out during the night, biking across town to Spencer's house and texting him (the modern equivalent of throwing rocks against the window) to come let him in to someplace safer.

The party at Madison's wound up being pretty good. Ryan found his customary place on the wall; he'd long since learned that affecting total disinterest made people _more_ interested in him. Maybe they liked the challenge.

A few hours after they arrived, some tiny blonde walked up to him, her head craned to one side and her smile a little sly. "Don't I have English with you?"

Spencer threw him an eye roll over the girl's head and slid away through the party. Fortunately, Ryan was way more interested in her breasts than her pickup lines. 

They wound up in the back of her car, parked diagonal on a patch of beaten grass and removed from the party (though still close enough to be kind of a thrill, like someone might look in and see his hands moving over her back).

Still, it caught him a little off-guard when she asked breathlessly, "You got a condom?"

"Yeah." It came out a little breathless, too, and he swallowed the dust down his throat, tried again. "Of course," like he did this all the time, like he wasn't two months shy of fifteen and losing his virginity.

The next day he showed up late to class still wearing the same clothes. It was worth the detention just to see how Spencer's mouth popped open. Ryan could see questions crowding up in his mouth, bit back in the glare of Mrs. Hershey. 

They didn't have English together, and Ryan spent his time glancing ahead of him at a blonde head in the front row. Peggy was kind of cute once you got past her name; not too smart, but she'd been, like, the first girl that had shown a real interest in him. Maybe he'd ask her out later on a proper date.

At lunch, though, Spencer caught him. "Don't ask her out."

Ryan looked at him over their sack lunches. Spencer flicked his eyes at the tables around them and kept his voice low. "Peggy has been dating Trevor Dunn since, like, forever."

"They broke up," Ryan said flatly. Trevor was a soccer player and had kind of spectacularly blown a game just after the breakup. Everyone knew about it.

"Yeah, well," Spencer pulled a face, "apparently he's not over her, 'cause he's been going around trying to find out who she left the party with."

Ryan glanced across the lunchroom. Peggy sat at the table nearest the doors with her hair perfectly curled and her face glowing. She wasn't looking in his direction; her attention rested squarely on the table full of soccer players where Trevor brooded hulkily.

"They're the grossest people alive," Spencer said with a vicious edge that Ryan knew, but had never felt. "She's a manipulative whore. And he's what happens when cousins marry."

It fell into place. Ryan looked down at the table, amazed. "Wow. Shit. I got _used_."

"Yeah. Um." Spencer hesitated then nudged his pudding cup over. "You want?"

Ryan scowled at it, for a moment feeling intensely uncomfortable inside his own body; but then he remembered that he hadn't really cared about her anyway and shrugged. "Gross."

" _Completely_ gross," Spencer agreed around his mouthful of sandwich.

 

*****

 

_June 2006_

It's some ungodly time of night in Texas…which is the only kind of night they have in Texas, apparently. 

He, Brendon, Spencer, Jon, Zack, and assorted techs and dancers have packed into a 15-passenger van in search of food after the Gypsy Ballroom. It was a sold out show; between that and the full moon hanging heavy, ready to drop, in the summer sky, everyone feels a little squirrelly. If he were alone Ryan would break into Hamlet's "witching hour" soliloquy but he's not _quite_ pretentious enough to do it with an audience.

"I want _pie_ ," Brendon says from one of the middle seats. He's been nothing but a motion blur since 5 pm, amped up with just the slightest edge of desperation, enough to make it all the more captivating. 

Ryan sees him like this onstage all the time. Most of the time Brendon directs it at the audience but occasionally he'll lunge at Ryan and grab hold like a drowning man. It's taken a little getting used to, but Ryan figures that being molested is a small price to pay if it keeps Brendon from having a nervous fucking breakdown or blasting off into space.

Offstage it's harder to know what to do. Ryan's unaccustomed to physical displays of affection; he is not, nor ever has been, a 'cuddler.' He can't quite help the startled twitch his body makes every time Brendon curls up beside him looking for a little casual comfort or maybe just a port in the storm of his own energy.

Spencer's usually the one who steps up. That _would_ make sense and seem only fair, seeing as he spends their shows on his riser behind the drum kit, far far away from the tornado.

Except, it may not be the same reasoning that Spencer operates under. "No pie, Brendon," he says. "No sugar whatso-fucking-ever. You're hereby cut off."

"Do not joke about such things, Spencer Smith," Brendon tells him ominously. "There will be sugar, or there will be blood."

"There'll be a goddamned elephant tranquilizer dart in your ass," Spencer retorts, hooking an arm on the back of the seat and dropping his hand onto Brendon's shoulder. The twitching doesn't stop but Brendon does shift closer.

Ryan sits in the back of the van, smooshed into a corner with his makeup going itchy on his face. Spencer sits directly in front of him and Ryan winds up staring at the back of his head for most of the car ride, wishing he could hear Spencer's thoughts.

Finally Zack spots a 24-hour McDonald's. There's some relieved whooping among the van piled full of sweaty performers and exhausted techs: they've already had to endure the complete lack of beef in Britain – something to do with still worrying about the mad cows. Personally, Ryan would have risked the neurological degeneration for one good fucking cheeseburger.

When they unfold themselves from the van and troop inside, Jon gets snagged by Zack to help take down everyone's order. Zack took a foot to the face tonight and needs all the help he can get. Wrangling an order out of one huge group of musicians, dancers, contortionists, and security personnel is a lesson in frustration; Ryan catches a flicker of weariness on Jon's face before he pastes over it with the easy grin that has buoyed him along thus far.

Lately Ryan's tried to pay more attention to the doings of his bandmates. Not that it's done him much good: if Spencer and Brendon have moved beyond that kiss, they're hiding it really well. 

In Vegas Brendon had kissed Spencer backstage, just walked right off with a giant grin on his face and full-on planted one. When they'd detached Spencer had laughed it off as a joke, Christ knew that Brendon had done worse than that with Ryan and half the dancers; but Ryan had seen the way Brendon's hands curled soft in the neck of Spencer's shirt.

No one's raised the subject yet and the longer that the silence lasts, the more fiercely Ryan refuses to break it. Fuck that: this is _his_ band more than anyone else's.

It's definitely not Jon's band. The website still lists him as a temporary replacement and he acts with the casual caution of someone who doesn't want to get too comfortable for his own good. They're only about 1/3rd of the way through America, but there's another tour after this one and from the way things are heading – ("We'll hit platinum sometime in July," Spencer said a week ago, grinning at his Excel spreadsheet) – it might go global. The call needs to be made, soon.

Ryan leans against the little polite guardrails that point out where the line should form, and watches a clusterfuck of gel-and-sweat-slicked heads teem around the cashier. His eye tracks Spencer automatically; Spence has the same side-swept bangs and girl pants as half the scene kids backstage, onstage, or out there in the howling crowd, but he still draws Ryan's gaze, like a tree in a field, like Waldo's red-and-white striped shirt. 

For a long time he'd wondered why; then he'd tried to stop; then he'd given up and gone back to watching.

Eventually Jon emerges. When he meets Ryan's gaze, his smile wobbles at the edges. There's a headache building inside his own temples, so Ryan jerks his head at the door and says "Outside?" in one of the single-word sentences familiar to people who have to shout over music or crowds. 

Jon's smile becomes more genuine and he follows Ryan out to sit on the curb of the parking lot beside their van. The air feels humid enough that the sweat on their necks has no hope of evaporating; still, it's quiet except for the occasional _plinks_ from the van and the muffled voices through the glass as everyone else gets a table. Beyond the parking lot, insects shriek loud at the moon.

He'd prefer to be out here alone…always likes his space after a performance, time to come down and whisper to himself _it's okay it's okay, nothing went wrong_. But Jon is decent company: he sits quiet at Ryan's elbow, humming quietly to himself. It's easy to drift in the hot stillness. Ryan finds himself staring blankly, unblinking, at a bit of yellow paint on the pavement in front of his feet.

It feels like they're all waiting to see how things come down. Ryan thinks suddenly of Vern, one of the jugglers in their show back in the States who couldn't come with them on this tour but could get four, five balls going at once. The 'temporary' beside Jon's name, their next tour, whatever's going with Brendon…no one knows exactly where or how it's going to land.

"Good show," he mumbles. It's conversational filler, repeated across time zones and continents until it loses all meaning. He needs to start talking, though, because thinking about things can't lead to anything good.

"The Gypsy was cool," Jon agrees. "Not as cool as Vegas."

"'Course not," Ryan says loyally. It's weird: he talks shit about Vegas and Summerlin all the time, but God help anyone else who tries.

"Yeah," Jon says, his lips curling like he can tell what Ryan's thinking, "thanks for showing me around." They all had, actually, renting a car and driving past their old practice space, idling in a parking lot so that Brendon could make obscene gestures at the Smoothie Hut, and greeted like conquering heroes by Spencer's mom. It had been a good day, and Ryan had dared to think, _Yeah, okay. Maybe this will be okay._

Jon hums a little tune (sounds like Carnival of the Animals, which just adds to the circus playing out in Ryan's head), then glances over his shoulder. "Can I ask," he starts then pauses.

There are a lot of different ends to that sentence. "What," Ryan says.

"Maybe it's none of my business," Jon says (meaning _maybe you guys aren't gonna keep me around_ ), "but I was just…do you know what's going on with Brendon and Spencer?"

Usually he calls them Bren and Spence or Aladdin and Jafar, because Spencer has the best evil cackle of them all. Ryan rubs his forehead. Apparently talking isn't safe, either. "Why do you ask?" 

Jon pauses, and then murmurs, "No big reason." His bottom lip tightens then relaxes as if he's chewing on the inside.

Ryan feels suddenly, sharply angry. "I mean that. What – why do you ask?" _What did you see?_ he'd almost asked, but that may be making something out of nothing. Maybe Jon wants to know if Brendon and Spencer are having an arm-wrestling contest later; stranger things have happened, though Jon is usually the one that instigates them. 

"I don't," Jon says slowly, "wanna get involved in something I shouldn't, Ry." He stares down at his thumbs.

For a moment Ryan wants to yell at him, maybe smack him around like a detective in an old black and white, _talk, willya, just talk_. Something tells him, though, that Jon might take that the wrong way.

Full stomachs make for a quiet ride back. They have a hotel room tonight and Ryan doesn't want to spoil a night in an actual bed by pre-sleeping. Others are not so reluctant. At least three people use Zack as a pillow including Brendon, who splays across Zack's lap like the Pieta with his legs flung over Spencer's thighs. 

It's no more physical contact than any of them have had at various points – Ryan has practically gotten to second base with Brendon _onstage_. Still, he's found himself re-examining the minute moments of their lives, backstage, in transit, on their few days off. Trying to decipher that flicker of movement he keeps catching in the corner of his eye.

He remembers this same kind of silent stare down about college, too. It'd been a game of chicken: for months, anyone asking Ryan _what are you doing after you graduate?_ would ensure a good three beats of silence from both Ryan and Spencer before Ryan shrugged and said, _dunno_. They'd both been waiting for the other to bring up the subject – it'd seemed important, somehow, not to speak first. 

Looking back, Ryan realizes that neither of them had won that round. He _had_ spent that half-hearted semester at UNLV, but they'd never faced the question of where or if Spence would go; instead they'd met Brendon, who sang like Ryan couldn't and wasn't going to make it another four years living hand-to-mouth. That had taken college right out of the equation for all of them.

Karma is a bitch. Brendon broke up the stare down before and now he's causing it. Blissfully unaware, he sleeps on in Zack's lap. Spencer sits with his shoulders against the window and Brendon's feet in his lap, his fingers picking idly at the ragged end of Brendon's pant leg. Between the yellow flashes of street lights, the blue moonlight shines on his profile.

When they hit the hotel Brendon wakes up enough to squeal, "Beds! Sweet glorious beds!" before dragging Jon up to bounce on one.

It's a rare moment of separation as people go their own ways. When they go to pick up keycards from Zack, Ryan squeezes Spencer's arm once, quickly. Spencer tosses him a glance, immediately alert, and follows Ryan down the hall to a secluded corner.

Once they get there, though, and Spencer is leaning against the wall with his arms folded and his eyes blank, Ryan loses his nerve. Instead he whispers, "What do you think about Jon?"

A crease had folded itself into Spencer's eyebrow. It smoothes out slowly as the concern travels elsewhere. "Permanently?"

Ryan shrugs. "Or we could just permanently list him as 'temporary.' But I think someone would notice. Jon might."

Spencer snorts. But the tightening corner of his mouth doesn't bode well for Jon… or maybe for Ryan. "Wentz?"

"He has some names. I don't know when we have time to _look_ at them."

Spencer cocks his head to one side. Ryan finds himself with the surprising desire to fidget. After a moment, Spencer takes out his Sidekick and starts punching keys.

"What?" Ryan asks.

"I'm texting Brendon to come out and join the important band-related conversation," Spencer says mildly.

Well. Okay, then.

Ryan leans back against his side of the hallway and considers a spot on the wall beside Spencer's shoulders. In the most indifferent tone possible, he comments, "Jon asked about you guys earlier." 

It's not giving in. It's just passing along information. Spencer doesn't even look up from his Sidekick. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. No one else has said anything, but…" He shrugs.

The button-clicks halt. "But what."

Ryan drags his eyes up to meet Spencer's, but only shrugs again and keeps his mouth shut. Inside the privacy of his mind, he imagines a pair of beams emitting from both their heads and meeting exactly in the middle, pushing at each other.

Finally Spencer closes his Sidekick with a decisive snap. The gesture he makes while tucking it back in his pocket, though – head down, fingers uncurling in midair, hips tucked against the wall – looks uncertain. "It's not – I _know_ , with the band and Jon, okay? I told him it was a bad time."

"A bad time?" Ryan echoes, contributing as little as possible, keeping every card in close.

Spencer straightens, his mouth tight. "Jesus, you look like Brendon's your virgin daughter. Nothing's going on, okay? Nothing's _going_ to happen. It's just vibes."

A tight knot in Ryan's stomach unwinds; that's the first moment he even realizes it was there. He still comments, "Pretty big vibes, for somebody else to pick up on them."

Spencer rolls his eyes. "Please, you guys make out on stage every night."

"That's different." That's more about Brendon needing something up there with him and Ryan being needed, _not_ being the unstable one (for once); finding it in each other under the lights is terrifying and intoxicating. Besides, _him_ doing that with Brendon means something entirely different than Spencer. Ryan is a semi-professional of casual sex.

Before he can say anything else, though, a door opens down the hall and a hooded figure darts out.

"Oh. My God." Spencer's voice is flat, but his grin sparkles.

"What –?" Ryan says helplessly. Despite the tension still brewing in his stomach, he bursts into laughter.

Only Brendon's wide eyes are visible, still lined with makeup by the show. With a towel wrapped over his head and drawn across his face, he looks like a Muslim woman. 

When he gets down to them, he pulls the towel from his face to hiss urgently, "Do you have the papers?"

"What are you doing." Spencer is still grinning.

"I don't know," Brendon whispers. "Your text said 'Hallway, come alone.' Are we plotting something? Can we give Zack a wedgie?"

"Unless you're flying all of Fall Out Boy in to help," Spencer says, "I don't think put _together_ we could give Zack a wedgie."

"You doubt me, Spencer Smith! I have powers that you know not of."

If no one cuts him off, Brendon can be cute and energetic for hours. "We're talking about Jon," Ryan says.

Brendon pauses then slips the towel down onto his shoulders. "Oh. Okay."

Spencer looks to Ryan. 

"What do you think about him staying?" Ryan asks.

"I think," Brendon says slowly. It's always startling to watch him get serious about something. Despite his goofiness and hyperactivity and obsession with Disney movies, Brendon worked two jobs and paid for his own apartment after his parents kicked him out; he never misses sound check and Ryan has seen him sing when he was too hoarse to even speak offstage, when they had a vomit bucket in the wings. 

"I don't think it's a question of his abilities,” Brendon says. “He's a really good musician, he's well-rounded. I think… the only question is. Do _we_ , each one of us, think that he would be a good fit in terms of his personality and all of ours?"

Which is an excellent point. Except then Spencer and Brendon both look at Ryan and he realizes, _They've already talked about this_.

"No," he says. Brendon's eyebrows draw together in concern and Ryan clears his throat, clarifies, "No, I don't have a problem with Jon. It's. That'd be good. We've got to get _someone_ , right?"

"Beckett's going to get voodoo dolls," Spencer comments.

Ryan's laugh sounds a little wobbly, but by then Brendon has switched the goofy back on and is jumping up and down. "Can we tell him right now? This'll be awesome."

"Wentz?" Spencer asks.

"Sure," Ryan says. "You guys go on, I'll be right there."

Spencer's eyes flick in his direction, but he lets Brendon pull him away down the hall to their rooms. Alone, Ryan takes out his phone; he stares at it for a while before he dials Pete's number.

-o-

_July 8, 2006_

In Chicago Jon gets a hero's homecoming. The announcement went up on their website only a few days ago – Brendon had wanted to put it up right away but Ryan saw the opportunity for a little drama and held off until four days before they play the House of Blues. Jon had laughed at him, but his shoulders are loose and easy.

It definitely achieves the desired affect. When Brendon introduces him simply as, "Our bassist, Jon," one particular section of the audience goes _ballistic_. Jon struts right out to the edge of the stage, grinning and pointing at people in the audience, waving hello; there's quite a crowd and Ryan wouldn't doubt that he knows every single one of them by name. He's pretty sure that he spots Tom Conrad with his hands cupped around his mouth, catcalling.

"Down, girls," Brendon croons into the microphone, his stage-deep voice amplified and echoing. (The majority of the yelling sounds like guys, but Brendon's probably noticed that.) "The boy is _mine_."

He spends most of the show latched to Jon's side, as if the band's hazing ritual involves leg-humping. Ryan's more than happy to share the tornado, and halfway through the show he sends Jon a sympathizing grin after Brendon has licked his shoulder.

Jon grins back, bright and happy and completely unfazed. Ryan thinks, _Yeah, maybe. Maybe okay_.

They've got half a day in Chicago. Brendon freaks out about the Sears Tower, Ryan shudders in horror at the river's sickly green, and they all wilt in the heat. "Aren't you guys from the desert?" Jon teases.

"We _left_ the desert," Spencer groans. He lunges forward through the hotel doors and the A/C beyond, throwing a middle finger over his shoulder when Jon laughs.

Back upstairs, they sprawl in Spencer and Ryan's half of the adjoining hotel rooms – Spence, Ryan, Brendon, Jon, Jon's tech Richie and his girlfriend Laura, and Zack. The whole floor has been rented out for the bands: everyone leaves their doors open, wandering in and out and shouting down the hallway. They have to be moving in a few hours.

Despite the heat outside, most of the windows stand open to accommodate the smokers without upsetting the nons. From his spot by the front door, Ryan can turn his head just a little to the left and see straight into Jon and Brendon's room, where Dusty and Katie lie on Brendon's bed in their underwear. Occasionally one of their slender arms lifts, passing a cigarette. Smoke curls above the bed. Ryan tries not to look too often.

"Thank God we never toured in a van," Brendon groans. He's sprawled on the floor enjoying a brief lull in his own nerves. Twisting around, he grins up at Spencer, who sits in one of the sofa chairs with one foot tucked underneath him, thumbs working on his Sidekick. "Imagine _you_ roughing it in a van." 

"Fuck you," Spencer grumbles. He flops one foot in Brendon's direction half-heartedly. "I could rough it."

"Really, Spencer Smith? You? Roughing it? Not showering for days at a time? Living in the same clothes?" Brendon lowers his voice to Movie-Voiceover Guy levels and waggles his eyebrows. " _Using a rest area toilet?_ "

Spencer cringes. "Oh, God, stop. I might vomit. On you."

Lying facedown on the bed across Jon, Richie, and Laura's legs, Zack mumbles, "Break it up, boys," into the mattress. 

"We went camping once," Ryan says, stretching his legs out in front of him. "Tents and all. Remember that?"

"No," Spencer says. "I have wiped it from my memory entirely."

Ryan's lips twitch. "Repressed memories?"

Spencer grins at him. The window at his back casts a halo of light around him, bright and soft.

"Did you have a campground or did you use natural toilets?" Brendon asks.

The grin snaps off Spencer's face. "Did we – what?"

"You know, natural toilets. You dig a hole in the ground?" Brendon is the picture of innocence. Ryan has learned the hard way not to trust it; Brendon always looks at him that way onstage just before he lunges for a kiss or shoves Ryan around, or both.

Spencer's speechless horror elicits another round of delighted giggles from Brendon. Jon works his feet out from under Zack and rolls upright off the bed. "On that note: I need something to drink."

Ryan rattles his cup. "I'm out of ice."

"You want me to grab you some?" Jon asks. His face is open, friendly, but it's the query of a tech.

"No, I'll come with you." Unless he's getting paid for it, Ryan absolutely does not want Jon waiting on him. Ryan is what Spencer once called "selectively moral," and he's selected Jon Walker.

They make their way down to the hotel bar in comfortable silence. For all that Jon has taken his time to settle, he himself is _settling_ ; he exerts a field of calming gravity and they've all moved into various orbits. Ryan imagines them as planets: Brendon darting in the kind of fast loops only an electron could envy, Ryan wobbling unevenly on his axis, and Spencer so steady and regular, sailors might use him to guide their night travels. 

A joke lurks there about celestial bodies but it's too unforgivably lame to say out loud. Ryan tries to keep his lameness to himself whenever it won't profit him.

"Earth to Ryan." Jon's shoulder bumps against his gently, and Ryan drifts back into his own head with a smile.

"Earth to Planet Ryan," he murmurs. Jon quirks his eyebrows in question but Ryan only waves him off and follows through the buffet.

There's a convention going on: the board outside the buffet reads ' _Welcome, Knitting Guild of America!_ ' and women mill around covered in scarves shaped like alligators and colorful knit caps. "Don't let them see Brendon," Ryan says. "He'll come back to the room with a crochet body suit."

Jon laughs. "That'd be a look."

Ryan hangs back by one of the tables while Jon gets his drink. The big screen above him shows a baseball recap and Ryan watches it idly, his fingers tracing across the tabletop. When Jon rejoins him, he carries a beer in one hand and Ryan's glass of ice in the other, completely defeating Ryan's purpose of coming along in the first place. It doesn't bother Ryan that much.

They get a booth underneath the TV screen, too close to watch. Ryan scoots his butt forward on the bench until he's slouched down low, his shoulders curled against the uncomfortable seat. His back is a mess of knots but that's nothing new. Someday, someday, he'll get a goddamned massage; they should make a whole spa day of it, and Spencer could finally get a pedicure like he's always wanted. He fits an ice cube between his teeth and chomps down.

"Nerves?" Jon asks a little suddenly. He gestures at the ice crunching under Ryan's molars.

It sounds blunt, yet when Ryan blinks his eyes open – he doesn't even remember closing them – Jon's gaze is steady and gently curious. Maybe he's feeling a lot more settled than Ryan thought; the question is a million miles away from that hesitant conversation back in Texas.

Maybe it's the sleepiness creeping along the edges of Ryan's brain, but he finds himself sitting up and leaning his elbows on the table. More likely it's the automatic, implied out that Jon's giving him. Somehow he knows that if he doesn't answer Jon will drop the subject completely, for good. That makes it so much easier to say, "It's a lot sometimes."

The House of Blues had gone well. It surprises Ryan, after hundred and hundreds of venues, that he never stops feeling sick before a show, exhausted afterward, and nervous in the trips between. "My mom says I'm high-strung," Ryan jokes, trying to make light of it. In fact his mother's never said anything of the sort, but Jon just smiles and nods.

It's deeply comforting, sometimes, to have someone around that doesn't know enough to call him on his shit, just accepts it and moves on. Spencer's been around since the beginning, and in the few years that Brendon has known them, he's wormed his way past their considerable defenses.

If Jon had hoped for more he hides his disappointment well: when Ryan slides his eyes away to the distant window and asks, "How's Cassie?" Jon smiles easily and launches into a relayed story about cats and buses.

It's another two hours before they head upstairs. Beside him Jon is loose-limbed and gently buzzed; Ryan would feel prickly but he's rarely seen Jon get any drunker than this. Jon is nowhere near Spencer's level of bedrock reliability, but close enough for Ryan not to worry.

Their floor smells like city air and cigarettes. "Pete's probably going to get another call about smoking regulations," Ryan comments. Their door's shut and Ryan frowns, digs out his keycard.

Most everyone has left, probably returned to their own rooms to pack. On the bed Spencer sits on Brendon's legs and has his shirt pushed up around his shoulders. Spencer must have heard the door, because he's sitting back and looking up at them with wide, dark eyes. Whatever they'd just been doing has Brendon's head arched back on the pillow.

"Oh, sorry!" Jon throws a hand up over his face; he blurts a startled laugh and runs into the wall, into Ryan, then puts out a hand to guide himself to the door.

Ryan blinks at Spencer, then turns and follows Jon.

In the hallway, Amanda has appeared and is gripping Jon's arms, red-faced and laughing. She's in her underwear. "I suck!" she yelps in a whisper. "I suck so hard! I was supposed to catch you before you – but I wanted to change clothes and I thought if I rushed…"

"It's all right," Jon gasps, bent over with his own giggles. "We're just, you know, scarred for life. Thanks, Mandy."

"Why, uh – how 'bout you come over to my room, boys?" She steps to one side, cordial as any butler with her pink panties and lacy pushup bra.

"Thanks," Jon giggles. "Man. That's – wow."

Amanda rolls her eyes and slings a bare arm over his shoulders. "Oh, Jon, you sweet innocent babe. Are you actually _surprised_?"

"Um. A little?" Jon glances back at Ryan and his smile slips loose, uncertain. Luckily, Amanda pulls him away.

In Amanda's room, Ryan winds up sitting against Brian's headboard with Dusty on one side and Roger on the other. Dusty's got on some rose-scented perfume and it does distracting things to Ryan's head every time he catches a whiff. That's probably a good thing: if he could follow one thought sequence long enough, he'd probably be pretty pissed off right now.

He can't – there's no good way to feel about this. It's just – it's just fucking _irresponsible_. They'd had an unofficial agreement: no potential shitstorms for the rest of year, no matter how bad Ryan wanted to bitch out Brandon Flowers ("We know you're a delicate artist and he's a bitter sellout who's jealous of your special snowflake-ness, but could you please shut the fuck up and let me handle this?") or Brendon wanted to kick Brent's ass ("Brendon, I say this with all the love in the world: you're a midget. You can't kick anyone's ass. No. Put that down. Brendon. _I will end you and all that you love._ …Yeah, that's right.").

He thinks back to the Weenie Roast, that kiss he'd seen on the bus after they'd kicked Brent out. That was months ago. Ryan's not an idiot, but.

 _Oh, Ryan_ , says the Spencer inside his head in perfect imitation of Amanda's voice and words. _Are you actually_ surprised _?_

 _YES. What the fuck, Spence? You fucking lied to my_ face. _Oh, and I'm sending Brandon Flowers a pipe bomb_.

 _Ha fucking ha. You're just upset that I didn't tell you first._

The last, half-melted cube of ice sticks to the bottom of the glass; Ryan taps it loose, grunting when the rim bumps into his teeth.

 _Maybe_ , he says, but only to the Spencer in his head. Never, in a million years, would he admit that to the real version.

Because the real one also would ask slowly, carefully, _Why?_

In the absence of ice Ryan fits a fingernail between his teeth. _Because I'm your friend. You always told me about stuff before; you've never once_ lied _to me. Why is this any different?_

_You know why._

"Oh, _hey_ , Spencer," Amanda drawls.

"Hey," Spence's voice says outside Ryan's head, by the door. "I'm looking for my roommate."

Ryan slides his ragged, bent fingernail out of his mouth but keeps his gaze on the bedspread as he stands. Somehow he's afraid to make eye contact – like Spence would take one look at his face and somehow hear the thoughts echoing around between Ryan's ears.

Fortunately Amanda and Katie have both grabbed one of Spencer's arms and don't look like they're letting go until Spence answers their excited whispers. Ryan angles his body to slip past Spencer's in the narrow hallway.

Brendon's nowhere to be seen; the door to his and Jon's room is shut. Sweat and something else hangs in the air, mixing with the smell of cigarettes. 

Ryan packs in a blur. For once he's the first person ready and waiting in the lobby.

 

-o-

 

_July 16, 2006_

Canada feels like an odd mix of Europe and America with the bilingual traffic signs. Their last day off had been the 8th and though they don't have a show tomorrow, they still have to get from Quebec to Pennsylvania. Ryan doesn't count that as a day off, exactly: their bus is full of techs and equipment and his band mates, and his bunk isn't enough privacy to properly decompress. 

On the bright side, their nonstop schedule gives him a perfectly plausible excuse for being a little quieter than usual; if anyone asks (pretty much just Jon), he can shrug and say, "Just tired, y'know?"

Spencer is not quite so lucky. No one else knows why he's increasingly snappish, because no one else senses Ryan's recent quietness as anything other than genuine exhaustion. Ryan feels perversely pleased: it's a secret wavelength that only he and Spencer can find on the tuner, and though Spencer can _hear_ the anger heading in his direction, he can't call Ryan out on it. Psychic insults don't count, and neither do psychic arguments.

By the time they play Toronto, Spencer is a designated no-fly zone. Maybe Ryan should feel guilty, but – well, he just doesn't. A growling, vindictive thing has been growing in his chest for months and Ryan's honestly been worried that _he_ might be the one to blow up: it doesn't happen often but when it does, it gets ugly. At least Spencer is controlled in his rages, mostly channeling it into vicious comments and shattered drum sticks. In that sense, Ryan is doing everyone a _favor_ by giving Spencer the psychic silent treatment – they might be walking on eggshells and nursing wounded egos, but that's far preferable to the train wreck that Ryan would cause. He's careful to treat everyone else exactly the same – partly because he doesn't trust himself, but mostly because he knows it will drive Spencer _insane_.

Besides, Spencer totally fucking deserves it at this point: he's putting the band in jeopardy, he's possibly jerking Brendon around, he motherfucking _lied_ to Ryan's _face_.

"I'm just saying," Ryan says, tapping idly on his Sidekick. "Pete's our fucking boss. When something happens, he's got to, like, be prepared for the press and stuff. It's his label, his money. He needs to know stuff like this."

"Thank you, mother," Spencer trills. "It's not like you wouldn't tell him anyway – all he'd have to do is smile and you'd follow him around like a drooling puppy."

Ryan pauses and raises his eyebrows at Spencer. Mildly, though. "Drooling?"

Spencer folds his arms and cocks his head and his hip to opposite sides. His smile could cut glass. "Oh, please. You've had a hard-on for Pete since forever."

"Spence," Jon says gently, unhappily. He sits on the couch beside Ryan, between him and the doorway where Spencer stands; if he scrunches down any further Jon might actually pull, turtle-like, into the couch. A magazine sits in his lap but he hasn't turned the page since Spencer sidled into the doorway with his mouth already curled into a sneer.

Spencer rolls his eyes. "Whatever. It's none of your fucking business, or Pete's, but sure! Go ahead! Live vicariously, whydoncha, it's the most action you'll get all summer."

Across the lounge, Richie's eyebrows go up. He and Zack have been even quieter than Jon; when Spencer turns away into the hall, a soft exhale drifts around the room. 

Ryan closes his cell phone and smiles tightly around the room. It's weird: his stomach feels tight, painful like it gets before big shows. Yet inside his head, he's calm. Centered. Collected. It's a rare feeling for him and Ryan feels it out slowly, cautiously, before deciding to enjoy it for as long as possible.

He says, "I think it's Spencer's time of the month."

"It's been his time of the month for two fucking weeks," Zack grumbles. "I gotta protect the _fans_ from _him_." 

Ryan laughs and the others visibly relax, apparently deciding that if Ryan isn't going to take offense at Spencer's barbs, neither will they. That's an even stranger feeling, being the one to keep things on an even keel. Ryan sips his Jamba Juice and feels perversely pleased.

Later, though, Ryan winds up on his hands and knees in the bus' bathroom. His throat burns horribly and Ryan remembers all those times that he bitched out Brendon for fucking up his vocal chords; he imagines getting up on stage and opening his mouth to _nothing_ , and chokes, his chewed-ragged fingernails catching and tearing at his palms.

At least Richie and Zack have wandered out to work on that night's setup; but Jon is there, crouching beside him on the floor. Once the heaves have passed, filling the bowl up with regurgitated Strawberries Wild, Ryan grits his teeth against the worst of the aftershock shivers. Jon says nothing, only wets a washcloth and hands it over.

Ryan wipes down his face, digging into his eyes with the heels of his palms. Jon has switched on the ceiling fan to cover up Ryan's puking; the sound makes Ryan's eardrums shiver, over stimulated. This isn't the first time it's happened lately, or in front of Jon – it comes on him all of a sudden, a sharp twist in his stomach and bile rising like a burst pipe. Back in Michigan he'd passed it off as a questionable corn dog but now he can't imagine, can't even figure out what to say to get out of this. Tonight's show isn't big enough to justify a freakout and there was nothing in the Jamba Juice he could blame it on…

The touch of Jon's hand against his leg makes Ryan jump. "It's okay," Jon murmurs. "Relax." 

He pauses, but when Ryan doesn't answer Jon sighs and goes on. "I don't know what's happening. Spencer's ripping people's ears off, Brendon's all quiet, you're totally fine until you're not –" 

"I'm fine," Ryan croaks. "I mean – I am." The floor is hard on his knees and he shifts uncomfortably; he wishes, not for the first time or the hundredth, that he had more muscle or fat or _something_.

Jon nudges his thigh again. "Done?" Ryan nods and Jon closes the toilet lid, flushes it; after the rush of water has quieted, he murmurs, "You guys had a head start. All three of you, but you and Spence, seriously. I'm miles behind."

Screwing his courage into place, Ryan takes the cloth away from his face. Pressure spots swim in his vision. "You help. You help a lot."

Jon smiles a little, kindly. But sad too, and Ryan flinches.

They sit together in silence for as long as they can, Ryan trying to think of something to say, some way of assuring Jon his place in the band that wouldn't sound unforgivably maudlin or desperate… something like _you saved us_. Time runs out with a murmur from Jon, "Showtime, Ryro, up and at 'em," and that seems to be the story of their lives. Perpetually bouncing off each other on the rebounds. 

There's a dark hallway that leads into the back of the dressing room, and just as he and Jon pass through it a distant howl crowds through the air around them, a little terrifying despite its familiarity; then the sound reorders itself into the staccato drums and piano of _Mrs. O_. Amanda and Brian have taken the stage and Ryan's hands move a little in time, distracted and lost in the hallway's dark with nothing but Jon's vague shape to guide him. A sudden sharp wave of vertigo hits him and Ryan almost reaches out to catch Jon's sleeve, hand poised before a door opens ahead and floods them with light.

Katie Kay and Dusty and the rest of Lucent stand in front of the mirrors with their arcs of round light bulbs. Ryan pauses for a moment to watch as they pull their finery close, feathers and straps and red circles painted on both cheeks, corsets lifting and separating, trousers held up with suspenders. This is his favorite moment of the day, any day. If he squints just so, ignoring the half of the room full of vending machines and a worn sofa, then Ryan can almost make the fantasy a reality in his mind: they're a troupe of circus performers, refugees from the heyday of vaudeville. Once they were majestic, applauded in the Palace, but the silver screen has driven them out of their homes onto the roads, forced them into the squalor of nomadic life. A dying breed who nevertheless conjure up a bit of magic every night. Not stars anymore, but a pretty reflection.

Someone drops a metallic can – hairspray or a soda – and Ryan jolts back to reality. His own show clothes hang along the wall, a little higher and a little apart from the others. When he edges in that direction, dodging around Dusty's fan, Ryan suddenly finds Brendon sitting on the couch, already dressed, his makeup done. It'd been easy to overlook him at first, between his small size and the way he's slumped there.

Ryan's feet stutter underneath him, wobbling dangerously as the world shifts again. Brendon doesn't look up: his gaze is trained on the floor. If he recognizes Ryan's shoes he doesn't react.

After a moment Ryan puts one knee on the couch beside Brendon's thighs and folded hands and stretches up, up to pull down his hanger. It's a plain outfit – or at least, plain for _him_ – just a white shirt and dark vest. It occurs to him, as he edges for a space at the mirror and pulls the clothes off their hanger, that he never did figure out what to do with himself. With this jumble of angles and round, plain features that stare back when he raises his eyes.

In the mirror, Brendon is unnaturally still, his head bowed. He has on his long white coat, the one with the tails that he loves to flip out every time he sits down.

The door opens and Amanda's reverberating voice drifts in. " _You really have a way with words_ ,"and then the door closes. Ryan doesn't look over, but still catches a flicker of Spence in the corner of his eye. 

He instinctively checks the mirror in time to see Brendon duck his head back down. Brendon's hands move across his lap, picking at lint, swiping busily, then stilling again. He doesn't look up a second time.

The vest in the mirror comes together one button at a time. Ryan's fingers move automatically up and up, pulling the clothes across his narrow chest. He'd been thinking about drawing a crescent moon on his left cheek tonight – but instead of hunting for an eyeliner pencil, he stands there looking between his reflection and Brendon's.

" _There's no Hitler and no Holocaust_ ," drifts into the room. Ryan doesn't look to see who's come in. He touches the dusty, stained counter in front of him, runs fingers over his shirt, and pulls a little at the misshapen mess of his hair.

It occurs to him, in a shivery flash of clarity, that if he'd only been braver years ago, or years before that, none of this would have even happened. But he's had his day. He also knows from bitter experience that the idea of second chances is a fantasy. The thought makes a solid weight drop from his shoulders into his guts. At the same time, though, he feels so much lighter. 

Light enough to turn around and walk a few wobbling steps to the couch. He flops down beside Brendon and says, "Hey. You look sad."

Brendon's eyes flicker up, then back at his lap. He tries the picking-at-lint routine again but Ryan catches his hand, twines their fingers together. Brendon squeezes back; it feels like the clutch of a man looking for solid ground. 

Ryan knows the sensation. 

"Just – stuff," Brendon says loudly. In the clamor he might as well be whispering.

Ryan nods and awkwardly slides his other arm around Brendon's shoulders. Initiating physical contact takes effort for him, even (especially) the easy platonic cuddling that Brendon seems to crave and Jon gives up so easily. Maybe that's why his and Brendon's interplay onstage always takes a sexual tone: Brendon needs _something_ up there to cling to, and Ryan doesn't know what else to give. It's the grand mystery of family and casual hugs, unknowable to him. Spencer's the closest thing Ryan's ever had to a sibling.

There is nothing – _nothing_ casual in the way that Ryan thinks – has always thought – about Spencer.

"I don't want to fuck things up," Brendon says, his voice raised almost to a shout above the giddy chatter around them. The makeup mirror lights shine in his eyes, making his misery into glittering beauty. Sometimes he gets this way before shows, a little desperation making his energy that much more compelling. Sometimes more than just a little. "I feel like I am."

"You're not," Ryan tells him, but maybe not loud enough because Brendon stumbles on, his eyes skittering all over the room.

"This band, you guys, this is, like, this is really – it's really important. For me." His fingers tighten on Ryan's to the point of pain. "It's _everything_. I don't want to – I won't – "

Ryan swallows back the sudden hot lump in his throat. He shakes Brendon with a hard jolt. It's not the right thing to do (it never is): Brendon jumps and stares at him. So Ryan manufactures something like a smile and says, "I know. I know, okay?"

That much, at least, is true. He knows exactly what the fuck Brendon means.

They tip their heads together on some shared instinct. Distantly the song has changed, become the manic, pounding piano of _Girl Anachronism_. After a moment Ryan murmurs along, " _I'm not the carefullest of girls_."

They're close enough together for him to feel Brendon's smile against his cheek. " _You can tell from the glass on the floor and the strings that're breaking_ …" His voice sounds better, fuller, cutting underneath the conversation still rolling along around them, the stage manager's shout of "Panic, twenty minutes!"

Brendon's always been a better singer, has always taken up the song while Ryan hangs back and uses his guitar as a flak jacket. The pressure of the crowd, of being the front man, singing Ryan's words – 

Brendon always does the things that Ryan doesn't have the courage for.

So it shouldn't come as a surprise. It doesn't. Ryan breathes against Brendon's shoulder, his eyes closing for a moment. It all makes perfect, clear sense. 

"You're not fucking up," Ryan says, sitting back with his arm still tight around Brendon. Spencer's watching him, watching them, with one hip against the makeup counter. Ryan can see the back of Spencer's neck reflected in the mirror. "I promise, Bren. You won't fuck this up."

Keeping his eyes on Spencer, he jerks his chin just a little toward Brendon. _You want to take over?_ he silently asks the Spencer inside his head.

 _Only if you're done._  
  
 _I am now._ Ryan slides out of Brendon's hands and rocks up to his feet off the couch. The neck of his vest pokes him – his tag is turned inward and he curses under his breath, awkwardly trying to fix it as he winds through the press of sweaty, eccentrically-dressed people to the door.

Outside, he exhales into the dark hallway. From far away, Amanda sings, " _Well it is the little things, for instance…_ " and Ryan hums along, distracted, his fingers opening and closing. Down the hall, the pale glow of twilight shines bluish on the walls.  
 _then_

Ryan didn't know exactly how or when Spencer had gone from a person in his life to The Person. The window of opportunity ranged somewhere between their first meeting and Ryan's eighteenth birthday, when he found out that Elise had cheated on him. 

By then he was a done deal. He called Spencer first and didn't have a backup plan.

"H'lo?" Spencer answered.

"Hey, Spence, it's me."

"Yeah. The, uh. The Morrissey ringtone gave you away. What's up?"

Ryan had never figured out how to make chitchat. That didn't mean he gave up trying. "Are you at that party?"

They'd made plans to meet up there after Ryan and Elise got done with their own celebration, just a quiet dinner out. Ryan didn't have the money to do that often. He'd thought it was an important gesture, being willing to spend money on a girl. Apparently he'd been wrong.

"Yeah," Spencer answered. There was a roughness to his voice that Ryan hadn't heard before. "I'm just – are you okay?"

Yeah, really bad at chitchat. "Elise had sex with Randal Emmons."

A sharp intake of breath. Spencer strangled out, "Who the fuck is Randal Emmons?"

"I don't know, but that's who answered her phone and who she's been sleeping with for a week."

"Holy. Oh my god, Ry. Holy shit." There was some movement and rustling in the background, the thump of music. Spencer said a little distantly, as though he'd taken the phone away from his mouth, "I have to go." Then, closer, "Ryan? Where are you?"

"I'm down the street from her apartment." He'd gotten about a block away before he couldn't drive anymore then sat there so long that the windows had become a sweltering oven, even in the middle of the night. Fucking desert. 

"Okay. Okay. Shit. Uh, I think you're gonna have to come and pick me up." A door opened and closed; Spencer's voice sounded like he was hurrying. "I am _not_ walking two miles home in these shoes."

"Don't you have your car?"

"Yeah, but," Spencer hesitated, "I had a couple beers."

He'd had more than a couple. When he dropped into Ryan's he brought the smell of a party – sweat and cigarettes – in with him, but it did nothing to mask the smell of…rum, maybe. Ryan ha gotten pretty good at telling liquor smells apart. Spencer's voice was steady, though, as he asked, "What happened?"

The ride over had given Ryan some time to wind down, enough that he felt stupid with his runny nose and swollen eyes. "It's not a big deal. Do you want to stay? We can." He shrugged, trying not to sniff despite the feeling of snot on his upper lip.

Spencer rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that's what I want. I want you to show up with eyeliner over half your face. That can only lead to good things."

"Shut up." Ryan breathed in and out, calming. 

A few people stumbled past the car and Ryan tensed, ducking his head self-consciously; then he realized they were throwing up in the street. "Fun party."

"A total _blast_ , man. And Jesus, can that girl's shorts get any shorter? I can see the whole bottom end of her ass."

Ryan forgot that he had a clogged nose and snorted with laughter, then spent a few minutes coughing. By the time he got his breathing under control Spencer had a hand on his back. "You okay?"

If Spencer made him rehash the whole fucking thing – pulling up outside Elise's house to discover that she and Randal Emmons had fucking fallen asleep after probably screwing on every surface of the apartment (Ryan's imagination ran through a lightning-fast series of options) – then Ryan was going to start bawling again.

Instead Spencer said, "Want to get something to eat?"

"No." Ryan's stomach felt like a deformed pretzel. "Don't think I could."

"Oh, God," Spencer said, "you're not going to, like, stop eating and waste away in your sorrow, right?" The sarcasm strained at the edges; he searched Ryan's face.

Occasionally it felt as if Ryan's brain had been wired backwards. He knew he should be punching Spencer in the mouth for cracking jokes; instead he found himself relaxing his shoulders against the seat. "Actually," he said, wiping his nose with the inside of his wrist, "I was thinking of a blood vendetta. Like, waiting a couple years until she found some guy that she cared about then hiring a girl to seduce _him_."

The corners of Spencer's mouth pulled down and he cocked his head to one side, considering. "That's creative. I do wonder where you're going to hire this seductress from, though. It's not something you find in a phone book."

"Details, Spence," Ryan said. He put both of his hands on the wheel and pulled in a deep breath, blew it out slowly through his lips. 

Together they regarded the pair of scantily-clad girls who were still vomiting on the center line. "Fucking classy," Spencer commented.

"Does your mommy know that you're frequenting this den of sin?"

That drew an eye roll of epic proportions. "Can we go home now? Before someone starts convulsing, please. I really don't feel like giving a statement about the tragedy of misguided youth."

"What a hero," Ryan shot back, twice as dry. He put the car in gear.

As they climbed out of the car in Spencer's driveway, Spencer paused and leaned against his car door. "How much did you drink?" Ryan asked, surprised. Spencer hated not being in control.

"Not that much," Spencer said and went to unlock the house. "I'm going to make sandwiches. I expect you to eat half of one, and keep it down. These terms are non-negotiable."

It happened again later, though, while they made themselves turkey sandwiches and murmured in the quiet, half-lit kitchen. Spencer stretched out to pass Ryan the mustard and barely made the handoff before slapping his palm down on the counter. 

A glance at his face made Ryan freeze; Spencer had his eyes screwed up, his mouth pressed in a thin line. "Spence?"

"Yeah. Uh." His shoulders hunched.

Something about the way he was holding himself triggered Ryan's memory of some pretty embarrassing moments. Specifically… "Dude, do you have a." He cut off, mouth hanging open as things clicked into place.

Spencer's shoulder hunched further and his hand rose to cover his eyes. "There's a knife drawer to my left," he muttered. "Choose your next words carefully."

"Were you going to get _lucky_?" Ryan gasped. His whisper sounded loud in the kitchen and Spencer flinched.

"Oh my God. Seriously, do you want a loudspeaker? I don't think _everyone_ in the house heard that." A flush of red crept up the back of his bowed neck.

"Who were you with?" Ryan asked indignantly. _Why didn't you tell me?_

Spencer opened one eye and peered at the ceiling.

Ryan's mouth dropped open further; he was aware that he must look like a gaping idiot, but there was just no helping it. "You. Were _hooking up_ with. A _random chick_?" 

Even in the soft light, he could see that Spencer was beet red. "Not totally random. I've…seen her around. I just can't remember her name just now, okay? Hold on, it'll come to me."

Ryan put his hands on his hips. "Spencer James Smith the Fifth."

"Oh, shut up. It's not like she knew my name either." Spencer snatched up the mustard and scraped along its insides with a scowl.

"Jesus, sorry." Then, after a moment, quieter, he said again, "Sorry."

He didn't know how they'd gotten to this point. Spencer had walked away from losing his virginity – and okay, Ryan didn't feel _too_ bad about cock-blocking if it was just some arbitrary girl, _Jesus Spence_ – to deal with Ryan's emotional fucked-up-ness. This wasn't the first time, either: their whole fucking history was one long collection of Ryan being stupid and needy and calling Spencer up in the middle of the night because he couldn't stand the unfamiliar dark of the bedroom in his father's house. 

And Spencer never said no. Never said _I'm about to have sex, go away you pathetic freak_ , never hung up on him in the night. He would talk Ryan through to dawn, grabbing whatever magazine he had handy to bitch about celebrity fashion and babies and rehab trips until Ryan responded in kind. 

"You didn't have to do that." It came out harsher than he meant. Spencer wasn't the one who had hurt him tonight, but Ryan's chest stung as if he was. 

Spencer looked at him and put down the mustard. "I know I don't."

"So why –" Ryan spat, but didn't know how the rest of that sentence went. _Why do you bother with me? Why do I keep calling you like a whiny_ kid _? Why do you raise my expectations for other people when all they want to do is use me or cheat on me or shove me around?_

He silently settled for all of the above and choked, "It's not fucking fair."

"Hey." Spencer's hand curled over the edge of Ryan's shoulder, palm cupping the bone and rubbing just a little. 

Oh, Jesus. Ryan surged straight to the edge of panic. If Spencer turned kind and pitying on him now like he never had before, he wouldn't be able to stand it; he scrambled for some kind of weaponry. He already knew that he had no defenses, not against Spence.

When, instead, Spencer slid his hand along Ryan's shoulder to cup the back of his neck and kissed him, Ryan inhaled in surprise. The mingled taste of beer and mustard drifted across his tongue and then things were loosening inside of him, coming undone, and he didn't have the energy to shore them all up.

Spencer wasn't great at kissing. Lack of experience made him overeager, pushing his tongue into Ryan's mouth; his grip on the back of Ryan's neck pinched a little. Still, Ryan found himself swaying into it and putting his hands on Spencer's waist.

After a minute Ryan broke the kiss to murmur, "Slow down," and Spencer murmured back, "Sorry." Somehow he had turned Ryan against the stove; they were pressed together from their knees to their shoulders. Distantly he heard the air conditioning kick on, working overtime to combat the heat wave; cool air moved over his skin, and Ryan shivered as he slid his hands onto Spencer's back.

Through two pairs of jeans, he could feel Spencer's hard-on and he closed his eyes against the sensation, against the quiet kitchen beyond Spencer's shoulder and the feel of their mouths sliding back together, opening. 

In the morning he got up first, having twitched awake a hundred times in the few hours that they'd actually slept. Spencer lay asleep on his side with one arm outstretched. They'd spent last weekend at the community pool with their feet dangling in the shallow end; afterwards, they had both been red and wincing. 

Against the pale sheets Spencer was sunburned and peeling all over, like a lobster with a skin condition.

The morning sun made Ryan squint until he could barely see between his lashes. Finding his way back to Spencer's car took longer than it should have: he kept expecting there to be a road instead of a fence and got lost in the puny little suburban streets. No matter how hard he tried not to think about the fucking _disaster_ of yesterday, his mind kept returning to Elise and Randal Emmons' imaginary sexual positions. Or Spencer asleep in bed with his long bangs in his face.

Finally the house appeared in front of him; Spencer's car sat across the street. A large splatter of vomit stained the road nearby and Ryan pulled a face, plugging his nose as he passed it. He'd actively _not_ dated high school girls, had figured they wouldn't have the maturity for an actual relationship. 

Apparently he'd also been wrong in thinking that college girls would be much better, if Elise is anything to go by. Or maybe something about Ryan attracts the wrong kind.

He wound up sitting in Spencer's car for a while. The sun climbed overhead looking for another record day of sunshine. After a while someone staggered out of the house and got into another car parked on the street and drove away. Ryan watched them go then turned the key in the ignition.

When he pulled back into Spencer's driveway, the front door opened almost immediately. Ryan froze for a moment inside the car but it wasn't like Spencer couldn't see him; slowly he got out and walked up the concrete path.

"Hey," Spencer greeted. A plate balanced in either hand and he held one out to Ryan. It was Ryan's sandwich, finished up and cut diagonally. 

Ryan took it and they sat down together on the porch steps. The bread was stale from sitting out all night. For a moment he couldn't eat, he felt certain that Spencer was going to say something.

But Spencer only ate his sandwich in silence, chewing with his pale eyelids closed against the sun. After a while Ryan's stomach rumbled in complaint so he took a cautious bite.

When Spencer finally broke the stalemate – because he always did, he always reached out first – he said, "Thanks for getting my car."

Ryan shrugged. "Didn't want it towed." He was probably going to have to sell his own to afford his share of the practice space. If they ever got a backup guitarist, that is.

As if reading his mind, Spencer swallowed and said, "There's this guy Brent wants us to meet. They have class together over at Hillhurst."

"Cool," Ryan said. 

Spencer finished his sandwich and twisted to put the crumb-scattered dish on the step behind him. His shirt stretched to expose the fragile skin across his collarbone and for a sun-dazzled moment Ryan remembered putting his mouth there, breathing into the dips of muscle and bone. He looked away.

Then Spencer said, "So, Randal Emmons has herpes."

Ryan's head snapped back around so fast he might have strained something. Throwing a quick glance at the house, Spencer went on in a low voice. "I thought his name sounded familiar when I woke up," an expression flickered across his face briefly, there and gone too fast for Ryan to interpret, "and then I remembered filing his insurance claim, a couple months ago. He was treated for herpes. I mean, it's untreatable, though. You can never really get rid of it."

The sun shone hot on Ryan's neck and he chewed the bite of sandwich in his mouth, swallowed carefully. Condoms _rule_ , but he doubted that Randal Emmons knew that. "That," he said, "is _awesome_."

Spencer grinned easily, and something in Ryan unfolded. "Yes. Yes it is."

-o-

_July 28, 2006_

On the road, between Vancouver and Seattle, a Las Vegas police officer calls Ryan's cell phone. The conversation lasts about two minutes; Ryan hears less than half of it, distracted by wondering how they got his number in the first place. 

Only after he hangs up does he think of the important questions: _how_ and _when_ and _did it hurt_ and _how long did it take for someone to find him?_

There's no way to call them back, though, so he gets himself another cup of coffee. Shit, he shouldn't have taken a nap earlier. Naps during the day fog his brain, leave him sluggish through the evening hours (until the pre-show terror jolts him awake). Jon can catnap like no one's business, just curl up in a corner and snooze for half an hour then shake himself awake refreshed and bright-eyed; still a bit of the tech in him, sneaking sleep when the schedule permits. Ryan, though, needs a few cups of coffee to restart, like a faulty engine that turns and turns and never turns over. He would never have napped if he'd known – 

Ryan sits back down at the kitchenette table. On the other side, Brendon and Jon are engaged in a Mario Kart battle to the death. Ryan briefly wonders what the officers thought about the videogame music and Brendon's squealing going on in the background of his call. Neither of them have noticed him yet, they're both too wrapped up in the loud, frenetic game. Ryan angles himself away from them just to be safe and hunches over his notebook.

From his seat, he can look back all the way through the bus, out the rectangular rear window to the sky behind them, marred by the occasional brown swirl of exhaust. Between, the hallway cuts through all the bus' parts like a layer cake, or the side of a canyon. The kitchenette/front lounge, then the bunks and their clutter of personal belongings, and the back lounge. 

Tree rings. They're a moving tree, on wheels, hurtling down the highway, leaves fluttering with their velocity.

Once he finishes this cup, he needs to tell…someone. Wait, no, he should call Pete first. They'll have to cancel the next few shows – or not, the police didn't tell him when the funeral will be. He's not sure that's something they would even know. Ryan waggles his fingers idly as he considers it, running the tips across his palm then curling them into a fist. It's too bad he doesn't have more muscle mass: his knuckles look sharp, almost toothy. They could do some damage if the rest of him wasn't twig-thin. Uncurling the fist, he turns the hand over and watches the movement of delicate bones beneath the skin.

His phone buzzes on the table. Ryan picks it up, looks at the ID, and answers. "Hey, Mom."

This call doesn't go a whole lot better: Ryan mostly sits there in uncomfortable silence while she sniffles down the line. A weird, inappropriate part of his brain wants to say, _you hate Dad, you have for years, so why are you crying now?_ It's not like death has made him a better person. At least she tells him when the funeral is, though she has to repeat it a few times due to Jon's ignominious defeat and Brendon's subsequent howls of victory. 

Ryan hangs up and writes down the date and time in his notebook; he'd been trying to write some lyrics when the police had called and the day of his father's funeral sits smack in the middle of the page, upside-down from the rest of his words. Tomorrow afternoon. They'll definitely have to cancel tonight's show, but maybe he can get back in time for San Francisco. Pete will know.

Shit, Pete. He'll want to Talk About It, Pete's like that. Pete treats the world as his confessional. Most of the time Ryan thinks it's incredibly brave, but not – Ryan just wants to call, tell him, and hang up. Maybe he can just send a text. _Dad dead. Pls cancel shows, kthx._

His coffee's gone cold. Ryan dumps the rest out in the trash and leans against the fridge. Beyond the video game music and Brendon's incessant trash-talking, he can hear the clatter of feet from the bunks, one of the techs playing guitar with dreams swimming around his own ears.

The same inappropriate part of his brain wonders what would happen if he leaned down the hallway and casually shouted to all parts of the bus, _Hey guys, so, my dad is dead_. Then, like, made himself a bowl of oatmeal while everyone else freaked out. 

He bites his lip a little to keep his mouth closed and rubs a hand across his face, shoving those sharp knuckles into his eyes. If only he hadn't taken that nap.

At the table, Brendon reigns supreme, his fingers flying over the controller. "I am a _BEAUTIFUL ANIMAL_! I am a destroyer of _WORLDS!_ And vengeance will most certainly be mine, Jon Walker! _DOUBT ME NOT_."

Jon's beside him, a camera raised in his hands and his head tilted back against the cushions. When the camera flash goes off, Brendon's fingers stutter and then he sticks his tongue out, waggling it back and forth in time to the Mario Kart music. Jon laughs and kicks his legs, fast _tap-tap-tap_ of delight against the floor. 

Brendon has been better. Mostly because Spencer has been better (because Ryan has been better). _The wheels on the bus go round and round_ , Ryan thinks, _all around the town_. He'd been right, though, in the end. No one can destroy good things like he can, not even Brendon and Spencer being – being _BrendonandSpencer_. The worst havoc that's caused are a few occasional disappearances that Ryan barely notices until they're back; they're like romantic ninjas, slipping off together in the breathing spaces between shows and exchanging soft, sly glances when they think no one else is looking. 

No one makes a big deal out of it. They probably owe a lot of that to Jon, who floats along with the same ease as always – their ambassador of affability, confident now of his place in the cosmos. He takes BrendonandSpencer in total stride; everyone else falls into step, the techs because they worship Jon, the merch girls because he knows all of their names and has shown them pictures of his cat, and the security guards because Jon drinks beer and knows what "third and long" means and is probably a nice change of pace (considering the other members of this band). 

If Jon spends more time with Ryan, smiles wider in greeting, well, Ryan can't begrudge him a little well-intentioned pity-friendship. In return, Jon pretends not to notice that Ryan is still quiet and always wants to hang out at the same times that Brendon and Spencer make themselves scarce.

Maybe he could just… get off. Have a cab wait for him at the next rest stop, disappear before they find out, avoid all the emotional hugs and offers to "talk." It's – he couldn't fucking stand it, the very thought makes his breath hot in his throat, furious, trapped by the bus and his life.

He slips out of the front lounge, heading into the bunks with his face tipped downward. The clutter of belongings on the floor guides him, from Jon's camera bag to Laura's collection of butch dyke Barbie dolls. 

Reaching the pile of old books outside his bunk, Ryan pauses, his head still bowed, and looks sideways through his eyelashes. Spencer's bunk is next to his, his head to Ryan's feet; the first night they'd had the bus, Ryan had stared up at the ceiling of his bunk for hours until he'd heard a soft _thump-thump_ from the wall between them. Quiet enough not to wake him if he was asleep, quiet enough that no one else would hear. Ryan had smiled into the unfamiliar dark and tapped his foot back.

Spencer lies in his bunk now, propped up on pillows and reading a magazine. A bag of Gummi worms sits open at his elbow; he's developed a real sweet tooth since he started dating Brendon, more as a defensive measure than anything else. 

They've told Pete and everything. Ryan had laughed when they did, saying, "Well, you're as good as hitched now. Enjoy your child bride, Brendon." Then he'd ducked away.

Once he recovered from his missed punch, Spencer had tossed his bangs and rolled his eyes. He'd looked at Ryan afterwards, though, a quick glance, like the punctuation that ends a sentence or an era, full of relief and hope and lingering anger. Ryan had smiled back and looked away. 

He's given up any claim he ever had to Spencer, ceded the ground to a braver version of himself. No one else knows why Spencer has stopped snarling, but Ryan has folded (if gracelessly). If Spencer needs a more explicit apology than that, Ryan can't give it. 

And apparently, he can't even keep up the apology that he's already given, because here he is staring at the whorl of Spencer's ear, the curve of his shoulder. If he crawled into Spencer's bunk and tugged his headphones off to say, _My dad is dead_ , he knows – like gravity or the world turning on its axis – that hecould stay there, and Spencer would call Pete and find them a taxi and tell the others. 

_And_ , says the awful voice inside his head, _he'd drop everything to do it, he'd forgive me, he wouldn't care_ – 

Except. Except he doesn't _know_ anymore, has felt doubt growing in his mind since he first saw Spencer and Brendon kiss. It's not as if he's never seen Spencer kiss or date or even love someone else; but Brendon clings to the band with the fervor of a lost boy looking for a home. He's permanent. He's _familiar_.

That, more than anything (way more than his uneven sense of morality), makes Ryan keep walking, drifting on past Spencer's bunk.

He reaches the back lounge and stops, having run out of bus. He left his cell phone back in the front. He should go back and get it, call Pete, text him, whatever. Get a plane ticket to Vegas. It's been a while since he went back home and Ryan's suddenly not even sure that he knows his mother's address. 

Behind him the front lounge breaks into shouting cheers as the death match is apparently completed; he looks back. Far down the narrow hallway, he can see people moving around in the kitchenette, cracking open a box of donuts. His notebook still sits on the table and Ryan has a moment of blind panic as he remembers the date written there. He reels and grabs the wall to steady himself. It's all right, it's just a date, it won't mean anything to them. He still has time to do something, if he can only think of _what_. 

The back lounge is empty, quiet, way too inviting; his blanket still lies crumpled on the enormous couch. Brendon had been a little freaked out by that couch at first, with its clawed arms and black leather ("It looks like that sofa, in _Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ , the one that – shut up, Spencer – that the Haggunenon admiral turned into and then it came alive – shut _up_ , Spencer! – and ate them. Seriously, shut it, you already knew I was a geek. You love it, don't even front.")

Ryan wraps the blanket around his shoulders and lies down. The leather creaks loudly as it sucks him into its dark folds.

The back of the couch is too near, so he lets his eyes slip focus and stare blankly.

 _My dad is dead_ , he thinks suddenly, clearly, but doesn't say aloud even to himself or the couch. _My dad is dead_. The words feel stuck down below his diaphragm with all his tears, as if someday he'll hawk up a monster loogie and there will be all his grief for his father.

It's an appropriate thought. Maybe…maybe he doesn't have to do anything. He doesn't _have_ to go to the funeral. It's not required. No one knows, he can just… go on stage tonight and perform business as usual, and no one would be the wiser. Someone would probably find out later and get pissed at him and/or think that he was the most fucked-up person in the world, but that's far preferable to everyone making a big deal about it now.

He doesn't mean to fall asleep, but finds himself waking up when someone comes into the room behind him, murmurs to someone else, leaves; then again, later, when the bus goes through some curves, slow inexorable push from one side to another.

When he wakes up for the third time his heart is pounding, his whole body wound up tight into a defensive ball. The lounge is dark and for a moment he panics, thinking that it's night and he's missed the show and the band will kick him out like Brent.

Then he feels the warm hand curled over his arm. The blanket's gone and he's freezing, shivering, except for that one spot. It disappears after a moment and Spencer's voice says casually in the dark, "I had the weirdest conversation with Mom today."

Ryan breathes through his nose, struggling to calm down. It's not nighttime, he can see sunlight peeking through the closed blinds; beneath them the bus' tires have gone still and silent.

At his back, Spencer presses his Sidekick keys, soft clicks of fingernails on plastic. "She calls me up and says that _she_ had the weirdest conversation with _your_ mom. Your mom calls my mom up and says, 'Is Ryan going to stay at your house?' 'When?' my mom says. 'For the funeral,' your mom says. 'Whose funeral?' my mom says. 'Ryan's father's funeral,' your mom says. 'He died yesterday.'"

 _Fuck_. Of fucking course. The one time that Ryan is – inadvertently, unwillingly – noble. He opens his mouth, but his voice still feels stuck to his ribs.

Spencer reads his silence for what it is and murmurs, "Imagine my surprise." He sounds angry and Ryan hopes for a moment that he'll yell a little or stomp back out, keep his distance.

Instead the couch dips as – oh no, no, _come on_ – Spencer lies down behind him. There's not a whole lot of space on the couch and they're tucked tight, back-to-front. And of course Spencer is warm; of course he's solid and stable and has the fucking blanket with him, tucking it over them both.

"Don't," Ryan croaks. "Don't." He feels himself wobble, precarious. It isn't fucking fair, he already gave this up once, he can't _keep_ giving it up.

He tries to stay tense and curled up; but Spencer wraps an arm around him and rocks him backward. "Shut up, Ry," Spencer murmurs in his ear, "and go to sleep. We've got a plane to catch at 4 fucking am."

And it's so easy – or maybe Ryan's so weak – to let himself slip into that familiar orbit; to let Spencer touch his hair and his shoulder and tug Ryan back against his chest. If not for the tighter fit of adult bodies and the smell of leather in his nose, Ryan could almost pretend that they're home, nothing has changed, and nothing will ever change.

-o-

_July 29, 2006_

The sun takes forever to set in a desert. Officially it goes down around 8 o'clock; but in the clear, dry air, the light goes on and on. Ryan leans against the balcony's railing and cranes his neck. Mountains crouch on the horizon. Houses dot the hills around him and for a moment he thinks that some of them are on fire; but it's just their windows reflecting the sun's glare.

Spencer had apparently declined his mother's offer of hospitality and booked them a hotel squarely removed from Summerlin. It's closer to the airport, which Ryan would guess is the excuse that Spencer used; in reality, Spencer probably wants to be around sympathetic and/or weepy people right now just as much as Ryan. Which is to say, not at all.

The sliding door opens. Ryan taps a pack of cigarettes against the railing and slides one out as Spencer says, "Got you some ice."

"Bad for my teeth," Ryan says. His voice still sounds clogged. He'd really lost it at the funeral, as the last shred of numb safety had slipped away and left him facing a coffin with his father inside. They'd asked if anyone had anything to say and Ryan had thought, _I'm sorry_. 

He lights the cigarette, coughing when he can't breathe through his nose and inhales a little too much smoke. "That's a lot better for you," Spencer says, not bothering to inflect his words in the slightest. The glass clinks as he sets it down on one of the balcony tables. 

Ryan waves a hand at the hillside, swallowing down another cough. "Looks like they're on fire."

Spencer joins him, leaning his elbows on the railing. "Oh, yeah. Huh." His hair is dark and wet from his shower, roughly pushed back. For a long moment Ryan can't breathe and he coughs again, fingers twitching.

They stand shoulder-to-shoulder, looking out over the fading skyline. 

"Do you remember," Ryan starts, hesitating – with indecision, not with fear – before settling on safer territory, "that time we made napalm?"

" _We_ didn't make it," Spencer points out, but he's smiling.

Ryan shrugs. "We were present for the event of its creation."

"Man, your face when Scott tipped the bucket over," Spencer says, laughing, "and it went _foom_ , everywhere."

"You almost jumped on my back," Ryan points out.

"I was trying to pull you out of the way," Spencer retorts. "You were just standing there. Idiot."

One by one the fires on the hillside die out. "Weird to be back," Ryan murmurs as he watches them go.

"We were last month," Spencer points out, but he nods. This isn't them-the-band: they're here on their own. Ryan has his phone turned off and if people are calling Spencer's Sidekick it never seems to happen in front of him. The others haven’t even given him their condolences yet, he and Spencer had left before anyone else woke up. This whole trip feels surreal, like the two of them have dropped out of time while the rest of the world moves on without them.

Ryan wishes that he didn't like that idea so much.

It's not as if he's spent all these years fucking _pining_ or something – Spencer is his friend, his best friend, always has been. With one exception (and that totally didn't count, he'd been messed up in the head and Spence had been drunk, they both would have fucked anything on two legs), they've never been anything else.

Spencer reaches suddenly across his arm, murmuring, "Gonna burn yourself." The cigarette's a little nub between Ryan's idle fingers, and Spencer extracts it carefully. He's so close Ryan can smell the cheap hotel shampoo even through the cigarette smoke; he doesn't stop to let himself think about it, just leans forward and clumsily kisses the side of Spence's mouth.

Immediately Spencer pulls away and Ryan ducks his head, concentrating on the cigarette package as he gets another one out.

"Are you – " Spencer starts at the same time that Ryan asks, "Are you in love with Brendon?"

Spencer cuts off. Ryan can feel his hard stare as he dips his head over the lighter. 

"You want to talk about this _now_?" Spencer finally asks.

A strangled chuckle blunders out of Ryan's mouth. "Not really. Are you?"

"You're drunk," Spencer says flatly, incredulous.

"Don't change the subject."

"I'm sober. I reserve the right to change the fucking subject. Where did you even _get_ alcohol?"

Ryan straightens up from the railing and takes a long drag on his cigarette. "It's called a mini-bar, you should look into it."

Spencer leaves his side immediately. The sliding door hisses. In the sudden silence Ryan listens to the traffic far below and pictures what Spencer is seeing: the neat row of empty little bottles that he'd slammed back while Spencer had been in the shower. 

His eyes swim as he tilts his head back, but he can still focus well enough to see the emerging stars, the bright Vega in Lyra's harp. "I didn't mean that literally," he calls over his shoulder.

"What?" Spencer says right behind him, making Ryan jump.

"That you should look into it. I was being figurative. Sarcastic, whatever." He turns and leans against the balcony, blowing smoke upwards. 

Spencer's face looks dark and Ryan braces himself – but Spencer only gestures at the pack of cigarettes. "The peer pressure is too much. Fork 'em over."

Wordlessly Ryan holds up the pack, flips it and the lighter to Spencer. Not getting any closer. Spencer catches them both and moves to settle on one of the chairs, his legs kicked out in front of him. 

If his lack of response is meant to unnerve Ryan, it's working. He fiddles with his cigarette as Spencer lights his own. At least Spencer coughs immediately, sticking his tongue out and glowering at the smoke. "Bleah."

"Hey, you asked for one," Ryan tells him shortly.

Spencer's eyes flicker at him in the failing light and then he takes another drag, settling back into the chair and dangling his hand over the side like a fucking man-about-his-leisure. "Hot tonight, isn't it?"

Ryan licks his lips, tastes salt and ash, then rubs the pad of his thumb over the same path, testing the cracks. Fucking desert air. It sucks the moisture out of everything. 

"I don't want to feel this," he admits, dropping his eyes away from Spencer's steady gaze.

"Okay. What do you _wanna_ feel? Drunk?"

So far the answer is a resounding _yes_. Ryan considers it, eyes closed as the first dip of alcohol really hits his bloodstream. He hasn't had that much to drink, the equivalent of three or four shots, but he also can't remember the last time he ate. 

It feels good. It always does, which is why he never drinks. 

"I think," he says, "I kinda get it, you know? I get him. He had all this… stuff." He gestures emptily, fingers holding and releasing nothing. "In his head. And he didn't want to feel any of it."

"You're not your dad, Ry," Spencer says quietly.

Ryan licks his lips again, grinds the cigarette into the ashtray. "I could be. I've been proving it lately, right?"

It's the closest he's come to an admission, the first out-loud sentence in a screaming match. Ryan straps his arms across his chest, tucking his hands in the crooks of his elbows; when he cuts his eyes sideways, Spencer is watching him. By now it's too dark to see anything more than the pale skin of his forehead and cheeks, the darker splotches of his eyes, all lit faintly by city lights and still unreadable.

Ryan curls his fingers into his own shirt. "Gimme a fucking cigarette," he spits.

Two seconds later a white blur flies by his head. The cigarette pack…which Spencer has just fast-balled over the edge of the balcony. 

"Oops," Spencer says.

"Oh, that's real mature."

The glowing tip of Spencer's cigarette falls and Spencer sits up, grinding it into the balcony's floor with one sandal. “You’re a jerk, Ryan, but you’re not your dad.”

"He wasn't that bad," Ryan snaps. When Spencer doesn't respond, he reels himself in a little. "Did I ever tell you…he called me right after the album came out. Said he liked it."

"You didn't." A few beats of silence, then, "Think he listened to _all_ the songs?"

"I don't – maybe. He didn't say. Just that he liked it and he was proud of me." The coffin appears in his mind again. The funeral had been perfunctory and formal, over before Ryan had had time to locate some version of his father inside his head and say…something. Or to wish for that moment back when his father had called to say, _You've really gone out and made something…_ but Ryan hadn’t known how to respond. Some unknowable, invisible window of opportunity had opened in that moment, and he’d let it slip past. Now it’s closed forever. 

He’s good at missing his chances. Someday (soon) he won’t have any left, just a circle of sealed windows.

A long, low sigh drifts from the pale circle of Spencer's face. "So, what," he murmurs. "Your dad gets forgiven because he's dead, but you don't?" 

Ryan catches his bottom lip between his teeth, bites down hard. The cracks in his lips sting. “Are you in love with Brendon?” he asks again.

“Fuck, Ryan,” Spencer mumbles roughly.

Ryan nods, his eyes fixed to a dark blotch on the ground. He wonders what it is, a spilled drink or a bloodstain or bird shit. It’s hard to tell in the darkness. The room's dark, too, and he finds himself wishing they'd left a light on: he doesn't feel like smashing into each individual piece of furniture no matter how bad he needs an escape route. 

The only other way is over the balcony and that's an eight-story jump. It's not like he hasn't fantasized about diving or slashing before – mostly about the tragic garment-rending and weeping from those left alive – but he'd hate to do it over his _father_ (because yeah, he really was that bad), and Spencer would either grab him before he got over or spend the rest of his life wallowing in guilt. Neither of which really appeal to Ryan and anyway, aesthetically, that's a gross way to go. 

His dad had almost killed himself once. Slashed his wrists – he'd had a fight on the phone with his girlfriend. That had been one of Ryan's court-appointed nights. When he'd gone down into the kitchen and seen his father dripping blood into the sink, he'd called Spencer's mom. 

At age 11 he knew what wrist-cutters were, had even developed a fascination with the thin skin and blue lines of his own arm; yet still his first thought had been _oh God, what's he doing, is he going to do it to me?_

Spencer's dad had called 911 while his mom drove over. She'd been the one to sit on the couch holding his father's wrists while they waited for the ambulance. Ryan had gone out into the dining room and paced beside the table there, shaking with anger, furious at his father for doing something like this, furious at his mother for leaving, ignoring the way his father kept calling his name in a weak, sad voice.

Visitation rights had changed for a long time after that and Ryan had felt _grateful_.

He wonders, suddenly, horribly, if his dad has killed himself after all – but no, no, it was a stroke, no one's said anything about suspicious circumstances, they have no reason to lie to Ryan. His father died alone in an empty house of natural causes. 

Slowly, Spencer's voice weaves into his mind. "Ryan. Ryan. Ryan. Ryan." He sounds like he's been saying it for a while.

"What?" Ryan answers, leaning backward. Spencer has moved to stand in front of him, his chest blocking Ryan's view.

"Nothing. You're just having a staring contest with my left nipple."

"Sorry." Ryan shakes himself and tries to find something safer to gape at, but Spencer is standing too close. Finally he shuts his eyes altogether.

"I don't mind. My left nipple is thinking about a restraining order, though." Despite his easy words, Spencer's voice has an edge – an odd, rough tightness that could almost be nerves, but isn't.

"Do you remember that time," Ryan starts, but ends – as usual – before he says anything of real importance.

"Yeah," Spencer murmurs, and leans close, kissing the curve of Ryan's temple.

Ryan pinches his eyes and mouth shut, not quite asking, hating himself for letting Spencer read it on him even without words. He doesn't move away, though, when Spencer kisses his cheekbone, underneath his eye. 

When Spencer lands on his mouth with a quick, uncertain kiss, Ryan finally whispers, "You don't have to." The consonants run together, so soft that they're barely audible, no air or strength to back them up.

Spencer settles his hands on both side of Ryan's neck, shaking him gently. Ryan's eyes flicker open automatically, then slam shut again when he sees Spencer's face hovering so near, sees his expression. "I know I don't," Spencer tells him, breath soft against Ryan's skin.

Ryan had been going to say, _Do you remember that time before_ , but of course Spencer heard it anyway, had probably heard it long before Ryan even put the words together. Ryan's fucked in the head and drunk, but Spencer is sane and sober; it should matter that he's only doing this out of pity, again, it should matter that he's really in love with Brendon, and, god, _Brendon_ , but – fuck. Ryan can't. He can't fucking _care_ , so he opens his mouth and kisses Spencer back. 

The only thing in the whole world that matters is the way Spencer's hand tucks against the small of Ryan's back, familiar and steady, pulling him away from the balcony and through the room's open door. Ryan takes steps wherever Spencer guides his feet, his head spinning just a little, then spinning harder when Spencer's hips shift against his own and there's suddenly a warm, solid thigh between his legs. The noise he makes into Spencer's mouth is loud and almost scared underneath the A/C unit's hum – but Spencer's the only one to hear it, and he's never – he won't.

Reaching back is hard, but Spencer always reaches first, always; Ryan can't even imagine what that feels like. He slowly slides a hand around to the front of Spencer's boxers. It's a tight fit between them and Spencer breaks away on a moan. He tips his forehead against Ryan's.

There's a still moment as they stand, panting together, long enough for Ryan to start panicking. He moves his hand and Spencer's fingers spasm against his back, gripping his shirt.

There's another moment or two, later, after Spencer gets them down on the mattress and pulls Ryan's shirt up over his head then leans back to do the same with his own. Naked, Ryan stares up at the darkened ceiling and breathes too fast; but then Spencer is sliding back to cover him, elbows propped at Ryan's shoulders and his hands in Ryan's hair. 

Spencer's weight drives the breath from Ryan. He doesn't actually mind, not when Spencer is kissing him steadily, and hooks his arms under and over Spencer's shoulders, holding him in tighter.

-o-

_July 30, 2006_

"Shit," Spencer's voice says in his ear. "Shit, Ryan, wake up."

He's already moving away, breaking free of Ryan's grip. Ryan inhales.

"It's 10:56," Spencer says, rolling out of bed faster than anyone has a right to do when they've just woken up from dead sleep. "We were – fuck, the alarm – we gotta go."

Ryan sits up and blinks at Spencer's naked back as it hurries across the room. The sheets are clumped together at the foot of the bed.

"Yeah," he says. "Okay."

"Our flight's at noon," Spencer babbles. He crouches over his duffel, yanking clothes out in a blur. "I set the fucking alarm, I _did_ , but I didn't _check_ it, mother _fuck_. We can – I think we can make it if we rush."

"Yeah," Ryan says, staring at his boxers. They're wrapped around his ankle. The back of his throat aches and he swallows with a wince.

" _Ryan_."

" _Okay_." He kicks the boxers off and balls them up in a fist. "Just lemme shower."

"We don't fucking have _time_ ," Spencer snaps.

Ryan stares at him. His stomach itches with dried come.

Spencer stares back, eyes dipping briefly then swinging away. "Jesus, just – take a spit bath or whatever."

 _Well, so much for the morning after._ Ryan grabs his duffel and heads for the bathroom. On the way he manages to stub his toe on the door jamb, and hops, cursing, as he slams the door.

His reflection has circles around its eyes and what Jon would probably call 'sex hair.' For a moment Ryan stares at his narrow chest and the bruises on his hips, the reddened splotch on one narrow shoulder where Spencer bit him.

The washcloth scrapes against his skin. Ryan grits his teeth and scrubs blindly at himself, then pulls his jeans and shirt on – the shirt smells a little funky, they'd been due for a laundry run – and jams a newsboy cap down over his goddamned fucking sex hair. Little ends of it stick around all over the place and Ryan tries to comb them back with his fingers.

Fuck, he looks like fucking Oliver Twist, with his hollow eyes and beggar-skinny body. He yanks the hat off, then grimaces and shoves it back on.

When he stumbles back out, Spencer is standing by the foot of his bed, stuffing things into his duffel with one hand while he talks on the phone. "… overslept, but I think we can still make it. No, um – shit." He stops to pinch his nose; Ryan slips past him. "Don't call Pete yet, I think we'll be okay. Yeah. We're just getting packed now, okay, I gotta go." He pauses, then says in a quiet voice, "I love you, too."

In the act of scooping up the clothes that they'd left on the floor from the night before, Ryan pauses. Behind him, the Sidekick clicks shut. Clothes rustle, a bag zips shut, and then Spencer says, "Ryan…"

Ryan's boxers still sit on the bed, stiff with dried come. He balls them up with one fist and throws them into the trash as he passes. "Gotta go, right?"

Without waiting for an answer, he shoulders his duffel and yanks the front door open, heading out into the hallway. He's barefoot, his shoes in one hand, and his toe throbs with every step. After a few more he regrets throwing the boxers away, even stained: he'd been half-hard when he woke up, and now there's nothing between his dick and his jeans. 

At the elevator he waits with his head down, eyes on his toes. He can't remember the last time he showered – probably yesterday morning, before the funeral. His scalp itches.

A door slams down the hall, and Spencer's feet thud closer, closer. Ryan opens his mouth, breathes in…breathes out, closes it; he keeps his eyes lowered while Spencer punches the elevator button.

"So," Spencer begins in a flat voice. "Back to the silent treatment?"

Ryan shrugs at the floor.

"Yeah, okay, _no_ ," Spencer spits, except then the elevator dings open with a people inside and they hustle aboard, Spencer jabbing repeatedly at the L button.

In a stone-dead silence, they ride the elevator down. Ryan sinks, too, breathing in shallow little gasps. Fuck, he's so hungover. He's never been able to hold his liquor, had even taken _pride_ in that fact, before now. The pain in his stomach goes on and on; he keeps expecting it to stop growing, but apparently there are new, awful ways to hurt. When they hit the lobby he outright runs for the exit, barely making it outside before he's heaving into the ferns beside the door. The sun is a bright shock in his eyes and he retches harder, mostly throwing up stomach acid.

Eventually Spencer comes out to stand beside him and holds out a bottle of water. Christ knows where he got it from – Spencer has this weird ability to make people do what he wants, whether it's a music video director or a hotel clerk. 

"Wait here, I'll bring the car around," Spencer murmurs, then drops his bag beside Ryan's on the ground and takes off, jogging across the parking lot. 

Ryan drags the bags over to a bench and forces himself to drink the bottle all in one chug, his shoulders slumped. Smokers shuffle past him into the courtyard and Ryan silently prays not to be recognized. 

By the time their rental car screeches into the covered entrance, Ryan's feeling a little better, though he's still half-blind in the sun. He throws their bags into the trunk and crawls into the passenger seat, scrabbling around for the sunglasses he left there yesterday. "Do we have any in here?"

There's already a bottle in Spencer's hands. It's the same one that he'd handed Ryan after the funeral, making him drink half. What's left is tepid and stale, and Ryan's mouth tastes like vomit and morning funk and cock as he chokes it down. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand, feeling every bruised place. "Thanks."

"I can't do this again," Spencer says.

Ryan looks at the dashboard, licks his lips, nods. "Okay. The good news is, I don't think I'll be this messed up whenever Mom dies."

"You – wait, what?"

Behind the sunglasses, Ryan closes his eyes. "Plane. Gotta go."

"That's not what I fucking meant!"

Ryan fights to keep his voice in a monotone and taps the car's clock. "11:05, Spence. Tick tock."

Spencer's whole face pinches up like his mouth tastes awful, too, which it might; but he only puts the car into gear and pulls out.

If Ryan had hoped that Spencer would be distracted by driving, though, he's disappointed. Also, nervous enough to slide on his seat belt. "I meant," Spencer grits, "that I can't do this _again_ , _now_ , with the – I can't just do this and not fucking _talk_ about it, okay?"

"Okay," Ryan says, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. Around the drumming of his heart, he thinks, _What the hell –_ if something good needs destroying, he's clearly the man for the job. "What're you going to tell Brendon? 'Cause, I mean, they'll be waiting for us in San Fran, right? I haven't even _showered_."

Spencer sucks in a breath. Ryan plows right ahead. "We could lie about it, if you want. Brendon's a pretty trusting guy, and he might not even care – "

"That I pity-fucked you?" Spencer cuts in, sharp as glass. "Is that what you think?"

Ryan straightens in his seat, a weird haze of calm settling over his mind even as his guts twist up. "Yeah. I mean, no. It might bother him a while, but – he's nuts about you, he'll let it slide."

"Are we talking about Brendon or you?" Spencer snarls.

Ryan screws the lid back on the water bottle and tosses it in the back seat. "Is there a difference?" At Spencer's incredulous look, Ryan lifts his hand and counts off on his fingers. "Both musicians, both emotionally repressed, both kicked out by our families, both somebody that you can take care of. That's some hardcore codependency you got there."

Abruptly Spencer slams both palms against the steering wheel hard enough to set off the horn. "You _always_ do this!" he yells over the indignant honk of the car in front of them. "You _never_ let me be nice to you! Never _once_!"

"I'm sorry," Ryan shoots back, one hand pressed against the dashboard. "I didn't realize you needed your life decisions validated that badly. Maybe you should _leave me the fuck alone_."

"You let _Jon_ be nice to you!" Immediately, Spencer's mouth snaps shut tight.

Ryan's pops open, like some kind of cosmic balance needs to be kept, and after a moment he laughs, short and amazed. "I – are you _jealous_? Of _Jon_?" When his only response is a snake-like glare and silence, he elaborates, "Staight-Jon? Jon-with-a-girlfriend-who-he-loves, Jon?"

"That's not what I meant, either," Spencer snaps. The car swerves. "Because unlike _some_ people, I can separate sex and friendship."

"You didn't last night."

"That wasn't about that!"

"No?"

" _No_!" Spencer practically screams. "Pity doesn't get me hard, Ryan, _you_ do!"

There's a bit of a silence after that, until Spencer mutters, "Fuck," and rolls his window down. Ryan turns to stare fixedly out of his own at the passing cars. 

"You going to tell that to Brendon?" he asks finally, quietly.

Spencer doesn't answer.

The miles tick by too fast, and then they're in the airport parking lot, screeching into a slot. Spencer scowls at the glowing clock – 11:32 – before he shuts the car off and opens up his door. "C'mon, we'll fucking pay someone to come get the car, let's just –"

Ryan slides across the seat, banging his hip on the gear shift, and kisses him. It's awkward and uncomfortable, with the steering wheel digging into his back and Spencer half-pinned underneath him, one hand still on the open door – but he might not get another chance. The thought makes him catch Spencer when he tries to pull away, makes him cover Spencer's mouth with his own when he tries to speak.

"Ryan –" Spencer gets out before Ryan can stop him. Ryan tips his head sideways, slanting their mouths together, holding on as tight as he can. It works, but only for a few more seconds, just a few, and then Spencer shoves him back against the steering wheel. "Ryan, _stop_."

He might as well have shoved Ryan to the other side of the continent, and put the Great Wall between them. That's how it feels. Ryan licks his lips, tastes Spencer, and says in a low, fast voice, "What, do I have to be crying for you to get it up?"

Spencer blinks once, his eyes wide, then punches him.

It's not a hard hit: the interior of the rental car is cramped, and Spencer isn't left-handed. Ryan's had worse. Still, he wasn't expecting it and he tumbles sideways, his other hip banging into the gear shift almost harder than Spencer's fist. For a moment he sprawls there, his legs still half in Spencer's lap and his hand propped against the floor in front of the passenger seat, honestly not even sure what just happened. 

Then instinct takes over and he pulls away – even as Spencer says, "Ryan," in a strangled voice – going for the passenger door and staggering out of the car onto wobbly legs. It's pure luck that he makes it into the terminal: he pretty much just starts walking away from the car as quickly as possible, and finds himself among harried passengers and even more harried people in uniforms.

He finds a bathroom and tries to throw up again, but there's nothing left in his stomach. His head spins, and there's a sore spot on his cheek and both hips that will bruise later. His throat burns, his toe aches, and his scalp itches. His shirt smells awful.

The final call of what he's pretty sure is their flight comes on over the PA, but Spencer has their boarding passes. Ryan washes out his mouth, spits metallic-tasting water into the sink. He keeps his eyes away from the mirror and flinches when a businessman sidles past him to use the handblower.

When he finally comes back out, Spencer stands in the concourse with his backpack slung over his shoulder, Ryan's duffel at his feet. He's on the phone, but his eyes roam all over the terminal, searching. Ryan briefly consider ducking back into the bathroom, but then Spencer's eyes circle around to land on him and ten pounds of tension drop off his shoulders in one exhale. 

Ryan heads for a row of chairs nearby and sits down, his legs crossed, his arms folded across his chest, head down. He watches from under the brim of his hat as Spencer hoists his duffel bag up and makes his way over, still talking on the phone. "…on the later flight. Uh. 6 pm, I think. I'm really sorry, it's my fault, I didn't set the fucking alarm. Um." He stops and takes the phone away for a moment to stare at it in confusion, then puts it back to his ear; despite everything, Ryan smirks just a little. He knows that look. "Yeah," Spencer goes on in a bewildered voice, "penguins are awesome, Pete. No, I didn't know that, thanks – for telling me." His eyes flicker in Ryan's direction and Ryan looks down at his lap. "Uh, he's okay. I mean – yeah, okay. Yeah. See you soon. Sorry again. Thanks."

He ends the call and shuffles over to sit beside Ryan – not directly beside, two chairs down with their bags laid on the seat between them. "Pete's gonna cancel tonight's show. We'll fly into Anaheim instead, have tonight off." 

Down the main concourse, Ryan can see the security checkpoint and beyond, a dozen rows of slot machines. _You can never escape your vices in Vegas_ , he thinks. It makes a nice lyric, but he's not sure he wants Brendon to sing about this.

Spencer twists to unzip his bag, and pulls out one of his T-shirts. "You have vomit on your shirt," he says quietly, holding it out.

It smells like him, when Ryan puts it on in the bathroom stall. It smells exactly like Spencer and he leans against the wall for a moment, breathing in shallow gasps.

Then he comes back out to the chairs and Spencer is laughing. He has his head tipped back against the wall behind him and Ryan can see the stubble on his face, the crust of sleep in the corner of his eyes, the round part of his belly that shakes a little bit when he laughs.

Ryan stops a few feet away, staring. Spencer rolls his head to one side and smiles at him, irritated and amused. "Fucking Pete Wentz."

"What?"

"'Certain breeds of penguins mate for life.' That's what he said."

Ryan stands with his stick arms at his sides and his puke-stained shirt clutched in one hand. He doesn't know where else to look but at Spencer's face, his smile. "What – what does that even mean?"

"It means," Spencer says slowly, so carefully, "that it's okay. It's just – okay." A beat passes and his gaze slides away. He shrugs. "Or it can be okay, if you want."

Ryan licks his dry lips, wishes he wasn't already wearing Spencer's shirt like a foregone conclusion – but really, if he's honest with himself, it kind of is. He's spent most of his life comparing himself to Spencer, judging his looks and courage and intelligence by this one constant; take that away and what is he? 

"Seriously?" he says, dredging an ounce of sarcasm up from some hidden reserves. "Penguins, and 'love means never having to say you're sorry'? That's what you're going with?"

"No," Spencer starts, then stops and points a finger at him. "You just made yourself the chick."

"Yeah, she was a hot chick. For being terminally ill." 

"Terminal chic," Spencer supplies, and smiles wider. "If you think I'd do this for anyone else, you're fucking crazy."

Ryan knows: no one can hold a grudge like Spencer. Four years can go by and he'll still be plotting revenge. "That's not very fair to Brendon." _Or you_.

"Life isn't fair," Spencer points out wearily. "You're proof."

Ryan hesitates half a second more – but yeah, foregone conclusion: he goes over to sit down beside Spencer. There's this long, wobbling moment while it feels like the _air_ holds its breath, and everyone stays very still to see where things will crash down, and a few planets stutter in orbit, before Spencer – who always, always reaches first, and part of Ryan wishes that wasn't true – slides an arm around his shoulders.

They exhale together, long slow breath while things shift gingerly back into place. Ryan spends a moment wondering if it should be this way, if this is healthy for either of them, to just drop everything and move on, same as always; another part of him wonders if it's ever been healthy.

Probably not. He can't think of an alternative, though, and mumbles, "Pete Wentz is my co-pilot."

Spencer chuckles a little, shaking them both. "I'm not sure I'm ready to live in a world where Pete Wentz is smarter than both of us put together."

"Not _smarter_ ," Ryan says, because there are precious few things that he has left to feel snobby about. "Just – less emotionally stunted."

Spencer's eyebrow rises in his direction. "Whatever. I'm totally not emotionally stunted." 

The corner of his mouth quirks, though, self-deprecating. Ryan smirks back then cautiously tips over to press a kiss there for good measure. Spencer tightens his arm and turns into it; Ryan slides a hand onto Spencer's neck, holding him steady while they trade slow, careful kisses.

Finally Ryan slumps back against the chair. Spencer takes a deep breath in, then releases it all in a rush; Ryan watches his shoulders rise and fall, the curve of his spine, the way his hair is squashed flat to the back of his head. "Brendon?"

Spencer's head tilts to one side. "Don't know," he says quietly, honestly. After a moment he looks over his shoulder at Ryan. "Let me figure it out, okay?"

Ryan nods, but says, "Want him to be happy."

A frown curves Spencer's mouth, darkens his eyes. "What, and I don't?" He leans back to settle beside Ryan, though, checking his watch. "Flight's at 6. You can sleep."

"Or you could," Ryan counters. He's quiet for a moment, then says, "My dad is dead."

From a few inches away, Spencer studies his face. Maybe he finds what he's looking for, because he murmurs, "Yeah, I know."

Ryan nods and then scoots down in his seat to rest his head on Spencer's shoulder. He's asleep in minutes.


End file.
